


Sforzando

by goingbadly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Alternate Universe - Pianist, Background Character Death, Conditioning, Corruption, DOES THE DOG DIE: YES, Dark!Jim, Dominance and Submission, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Molly Hooper/Jim Moriarty, Musical Instruments, Orchestra, Past Child Abuse, Piano, Violinist Sherlock, Violins, musical AU, the dog dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:44:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 105,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a tumblr post by Barumonster AND NOW WITH FANART BY HIPPANO: Much to Sebastian Moran's disgust, he's exactly as good of a conductor as his famous father groomed him to be. Young, brilliant, and facing a prison sentence if he doesn't do what his father wants, Sebastian is forced into accepting control of his own orchestra. </p><p>An orchestra, Sebastian soon learns, that has one horrifying unspoken rule: You fuck up one performance... you don't live to see the next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was so tempted to title this _Kill the Rude (But Don't Eat Them, Hannibal, That's Weird)_
> 
> Okay! So, first of all I need to give all the credit for this to [Miescha](http://gimmemormor.tumblr.com) Who has played in seven orchestras and is not only a fantastic fandom artist but a legitimitely talented classical cellist and musician. Also [Barumonster,](http://barumonster.tumblr.com) who wrote [ this post ](http://barumonster.tumblr.com/post/94514024013) on which the whole fic is based. 
> 
> And our fandom Lord And Master Hippano DID ME A FANART??!?!?!  
> [Sebastian conducting! [click]](http://hippano.tumblr.com/post/119124338178/fanart-for-goingbadlys-orchestraau)  
> and then she did ANOTHER ONE?! [[It's so fantastic click it immediately!?]](http://hippano.tumblr.com/post/132615557750/goingbadly-released-chapter-8-of-sforzando-and-i)  
> And suspiciouslyspanish made me a COVER it's WONDERFUL [[There's ones for Firstly You Will Not Question Me and Engine Knock and La Vie En Ecarlate as well!!!!!]](http://suspiciouslyspanish.tumblr.com/post/134532039232/fic-covers-goingbadly)  
> Jesus. Okay. Uh - Hope you enjoy!

_S -_ _♫_

Sebastian stands outside the doors of the orchestral hall and deeply, _deeply_ wishes he didn’t have to enter. They’re double-doors; smooth, polished. The handles are a gleaming gold; the wood stained a luxurious red. It’s always red. _Theatres and whore houses,_ Sebastian thinks. He’s still wasting time. The floor under his new, uncomfortable shoes is carpet; just slightly worn, but still thick enough to muffle the sound of footsteps. In _there,_ it’ll be hardwood. Flawlessly smooth; installed with an anal-retentive ear for acoustics. The hall is an instrument, after all. One of many.

Even muffled by the doors Sebastian can hear the cacophonous sound of a hundred musical tools being tuned and played and fiddled with all at once. Individually, each might be beautiful; together, they’re a great ugly mess.

Sebastian does them the favor of hating them, both individually and all together. Still, he can’t help but pick out a few of the threads – blame his father for that. There’s Ysaye, done well. Dvorak, done badly. A screeching clarinet that makes Sebastian wince and think of high school, although that could also be the plodding scales of the cellos warming up.

Someone’s playing Liszt’s _Au bord du un source_ behind it all, quite well, dreamy and ethereal and barely there at all.

The combined effect is giving Sebastian a headache.

He scrubs his fingers through his hair and glares at the lobby mirrors. In the soft theater lights, Sebastian’s expression might even pass for civil; but he doubts it. He’s got bags under his eyes and a scowl a mile wide.

And he’s _still_ wasting time.

Sebastian growls to himself. _Stop dicking about, Moran,_ he thinks, _You’re already fucked._

He sets one hand on the left hall door and pushes it open.

It doesn’t exactly have a dramatic affect. He’s greeted by a wall of sound, three small steps, and a row of bassist’s backs. The door he’s entered through is set just slightly back from the raised stage, so for the moment, he’s hidden from sight by the risers. Better that way, he supposes.

The hall itself is lovely: Augustus Moran can afford to bribe the best, after all. It’s a huge, arcing place, with two floors and enough red scratchy seats to make a ticket-master wet himself in glee. The ceiling and columns are white, pristine, intricately carved. The honey-oak hardwood practically glows. Even just with dissonance, Sebastian can tell the acoustics are more than flawless; there’s a sort of halo to them, an imperfect bounce that isn’t quite an echo. It makes sound seem rounder, smoother.

The small, tortured part of Sebastian that still loves music shuts its eyes and sings.

Sebastian scowls and turns his attention to the orchestra.

From what he can see of the bassists – which isn’t much – they’re the standard lot. Third from the left hasn’t shaved the back of his neck – third from the _right_ hasn’t asked for the small size meal since the day he was born. On the second row down one of the bassists has her instrument leaning against her knee as she chatters at – not _with_ – one of the violas. She’s somehow making herself heard over the wall of sound filling the hall, which is equal parts impressive and terrifying.

Sebastian wants to turn around. Walk away. Call up dear old Dad and tell him, _You know, I’d rather prison after all, thanks._ Leave the orchestra and every bland, shallow piece of trash in it to play with their toys and _rot._

But he doesn’t. This is a fight, after all. Hell if Sebastian’s going to be the one to run from it. He squares his shoulders, grits his teeth, and takes the three steps up to the stage.

Silence doesn’t fall at once; it drops into place like stars coming out at night, instruments flickering one by one into silence. The piano is last, that wispy, delicate Liszt following Sebastian up the podium. He registers somewhere that it’s beautiful. Almost perfect. Or maybe, like the hall, just imperfect enough to make you ache.

_And that’s enough faggy fucking music talk from you._

Sebastian faces the orchestra, giving them a moment to take his measure as he takes theirs. Most of the faces looking at him are some degree of resentful or cold; he doesn’t blame the angry ones, even though he notes them carefully. Sebastian didn’t audition, like they did. He hasn’t earned his place. If it were him on stage looking at some untested jackass – and thank fuck it’s _not_ – he’d be pissed enough to punch someone.

Still. If they think they can make him quiver like some virgin at a strip club –

_Not **now.**_

Sebastian exhales, and listens. Silence. Expectant musicians. The soft rustle of shifting bodies, creaking chairs.

“I’m Sebastian Moran,” he tells them. The hall makes his sound fuller than it is, gives it an air of harmonies it doesn’t have. “I’m conducting. You’ve all got your music. Sounds like some of you might even know how to play your instruments.”

The orchestra gapes at him. Okay, the rudeness is cheap. But he’s still got that fucking headache, and it is very close to nearly _entirely_ their fault. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take it. They’ve got the option of quitting. Sebastian turns his back on them, ignoring the itch between his shoulder blades. He takes off his jacket and hangs it over the stage railing. He’s already somewhat regretting the tight black jeans and v-neck underneath it. As soon as he takes off the jacket, Sebastian’s gone from rock star to club gay, and isn’t _that_ just musicians in a nutshell.

When he turns back, the orchestra’s gone from mutinous to _murderous._ The first violin looks especially enraged; a slender man with black curls and blazing pale eyes, who could pass for a model or a murderer. Most of the violins are with him; like a rack of offended cats being offered the wrong food. From the look of the center clarinet, Sebastian can tell _exactly_ who squeaked during warm-up. The rest of the group seem guarded and resentful; although percussion, as always, just looks a little bit stoned.

“Shall we?” Sebastian asks, and raises his arms.

            _Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin' –_

Sebastian’s arms drop again. “What the fuck is _that?_ ” he demands, even though it’s obvious. The tinny music fills the air, amplified to uber-sonic proportions by the hall.

            _And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive. Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive..._

“Who the hell,” Sebastian growls furiously, “Had the bloody _balls_ to leave their cell phone on?” The musicians shift in their seats uncomfortably.

_Stayin' alive…_

“Oops,” drawls a deep, low voice from the back of the stage. “Sorry.” Sebastian’s head snaps up. He scans the back row furiously. The voice has a strange lilt, and, subconsciously, Sebastian expects to see one of the percussionists flushing; someone big, barrel chested. A little dopey, maybe.

The music starts to loop. _Feel the city breaking –_

“I did _mean_ to turn it off,” the piano player continues, wiggling his cell phone above his instrument before he straightens. “It’s just our usual conductor is on _time…_ ”

            _And we’re stayin alive –_

Sebastian’s head jerk backwards in surprise. The pianist grins at him, thumb pressed white on his cell-phone power button. He’s small – skinny, rather than slender, small rather than short. His black hair is slicked back, and his dark eyes are creased and sunken. He’s got the look of a teenager on a sugar high, or a mafia boss with his back to the wall. Something frantic, and manic, and untouchable. He’s not embarrassed; not even close.

“And you are?” Sebastian asks, coolly.

“James Moriarty,” the pianist responds, just as calm. “But you can call me Jim. No one else does, but _you_ can, lucky boy.” He doesn’t seem at all bothered by the exchange, or the spotlight; from the lazy slump of his shoulders as he sets his phone down on the piano, the two of them might be alone in the room.

 _Fired,_ Sebastian thinks to himself, but he doesn’t say it. Not yet. Not after the Liszt. He has to be sure Jim’s replaceable before he fires him; rehiring a player would be fatal weakness for a new conductor. If Jim plays as well as his arrogance says…

Well.

“Your usual conductor let you waste his time?” Sebastian asks pointedly. Jim’s smile gets a little wider, bordering on creepy. He shakes his head. Freaky little fuck. Sebastian doesn’t quite manage to keep the hairs on the back of his neck from rising. “Well then sit the _fuck_ down and play.”

Jim wiggles skeletal fingers at Sebastian, and plops heavily down on his piano bench.

Sebastian glares around the room. “Anyone else?” No one’s that brave. Or that suicidal. A single chair squeaks against the floor as someone moves nervously. “Good.”

He raises his arms again. “Let’s begin.”

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

 

Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5. Sebastian can see the notes on the score as if they’re written on the air in front of him, inevitable and unchangeable as physical law. The orchestra doesn’t so much create the sound as draw it out of the waiting air. First the strings surge to life – pulling out minor sixths that march across the stage like a threat, ebbing and flowing down to a winding thread of thirds. It’s delicate, narrow, strange; a twisting alley-way of sound, precarious and unsure.

Sebastian’s fingers twitch around his baton. He chases the strings through the first movement as if they’ll break when he catches them, weaving them through a gossamer path to the lyrical sweep of the first violin part. Sweet sounds. Creeping sounds. Sebastian’s baton flicks and smooths through the air, and he shuts his eyes.

In his head he can hear what it _should_ be, and the sound around him comes so close it makes his skin ache. He can feel it press against him. A bitter-sweet emotion, by turns terrified and victorious.

He _can_ make them hear it.

The melody is a frightened, delicate thing; the first violins find it, catch it, swing it nervously back and forth across the stage. Sebastian lets them play, almost too freely, tipping on the edge of a delicate beauty. The violins are a question without an answer. It’s the woodwinds that have to respond, confident and sweet. Sebastian beckons, letting the violins fall back forgotten. Minor in strings; chromatic scales in celesta. Friction resonates on the air, and Sebastian leaps up like he’s forgotten – it’s the brass he needs, hurried and uneasy – he gathers them in an urgent hand and throws them upwards, strident, nervous, shouting the question that the violin strings had whispered.

Minor chords fall among the rows like accusations. Sebastian finds the softest build of stroking rhythm and teases it forward out of the mess of sound.

With his eyes half shut he can almost _see_ the melody slide forward on silken slippers.

Sebastian pushes the musicians violently, cajoles them, seduces them. He can feel each instrument like electricity on the air, like strings of a great harp beneath his fingers.

Like if he could just reach out, he could guide each player through the eye of a needle.

Quick steps, here, precise little notes – witty and clever, trickling down into the piping brass where it’s swept away by triumph. And the solo violin, oh yes, _there –_ Sebastian’s fingers curl towards the violins; forgetting everything but the sound waiting to be heard.

The first violin doesn’t disappoint him; sound leaps over it all, friendly and playful, dancing in and out of the rest of the sound like it’s teasing them to catch it.

It’s close to perfect. They might even be a good orchestra, one day.

Sebastian drives them hard towards the end – tense and stark as thunder on the air.

_Drums, now – the snare – timpani – **yes** –_

Sebastian shuts his eyes and there, _there_ is the song he’s been chasing. The orchestra meshes together like a single, many-handed being. Their voice is triumphant, the electric shock of the symbols and strings rising from dissonant tension into pure, exultant, joy.

Sebastian feels the notes between his fingers, on his skin, and forgets their flaws. He gathers instruments up and throws them down together like a force of nature, falling headlong after the timpani to the inevitable, breathless conclusion.

Imperfect. Exquisite.

_Yes!_

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

They crash to a halt.

Sebastian frowns, shuts his eyes, and plays the music back in his head. Augustus’ voice snaps at his ear – _there’s a billion fucking mistakes, you absolute **idiot** , surely you can find me **one** – _ and they start to light up like fireworks. Once he gets going, Sebastian’s not sure he can stop. Making _this_ into a functioning orchestra might just be an impossible task. He’s just going to ignore the tempo, for now, because if someone had it right he couldn’t hear them over the rest. There’s plenty of other problems. The bass has creatively invented its own key to play in, for starters. The brass could use a set of very large corks, if he wants them to play less than _mezzo-forte,_ and at this point he’s not really sure he has French horns at all for how much he could hear them. At least his violins have a consistent tone, if the wrong one.

Sebastian grits his teeth.

The worst part, of course, is that the piano was _spectacular._ Damn Moriarty to bloody hell. He has to stay.

“Right,” Sebastian says finally. _Start with the violins._ “Who’s Concert Master?”

The willowy, model-pretty violinist in the front row unfolds himself from his seat. He’s wearing a crisp black suit, even though formal wear isn’t standard for practice, and his black curls froth over the collar. His cheekbones look polished enough to cut diamonds, but his expression is sharper.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“You have a problem with tuning that?” Sebastian asks, nodding to the Strad in Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock goes still in the way of a cat stalking a mouse. His eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” Sebastian explains, deliberately condescending, “I’d like it in tune, so if you could _manage_ – “

“ _It’s in tune._ ” Sherlock spits.

Someone in the back of the room giggles. It sounds disturbingly like Moriarty, so Sebastian ignores it. “Good. Get the rest of them that way.”

Sherlock sets his jaw like he’s going to argue, but Sebastian just stares at him and waits. Sherlock might be replaceable, he might not be, but if Sebastian backs down the group will never respect him and there’s no way around that. This is a fucking pissing contest with only one winner, and both of them know it.

Sherlock turns with an elegant and unnecessary flourish of his bow. The rest of the orchestra snaps to attention, like Sherlock’s got them on puppet strings. Sebastian can respect that. He steps back, and turns to the empty seats with his eyes closed. Listening.

A single clear, pure note drifts out from the oboist, hanging thready on the air. Then the rest of the woodwinds swell up beneath it, supporting it, holding it round and full and large around the hall. They die out together, sound fading back from the front row like a wave.

Again. The 440 A note, lonely and fragile, brass instruments twining in beneath it and stretching for the corners of the room like an indrawn breath before the sound dies off into stillness.

A third time. Oboe. The strings, singing in one voice, sounding one clear note with triumphant strength, reaching, failing, fading –

A breath. Snatched from the air like a gasp of pleasure. It’s Sherlock; satisfied with perfection in the way that only genius is.

Sebastian opens his eyes, but he doesn’t turn from the empty red chairs. “It’ll do,” he tells the orchestra. He grips the stage’s railing. As much as he wants to knife Augustus’s training out of his brain, he’s unable to help himself from _wanting_ to hear the music perfect. And he knows how. _Damn_ it all.

“Now, as for the rest of it – clarinets, oboes, a little softer. The notes are paws, not boots. Don’t stomp them down. _Legato._ Brass…” Sebastian can’t help a grin, and he ducks his head to hide it even with his back turned. “You know what I’m going to say.”

Some brave soul stage whispers “ _Play quieter,_ ” and they all laugh.

“Clever,” Sebastian allows, when the laughter dies down, “Now make it happen.” He turns back to them, finally, his smile lingering around his lips. “Try to keep in tempo with me, this time.” He taps the baton against his stand, even though it’s unnecessary. The orchestra snaps to attention only a little slower than they had for Sherlock. It’s something, at least. Sebastian gathers them with his eyes, takes a deep breath and holds it. When he reaches out he can feel tension strain against his hands, as if the music waiting to happen is a tangible thing that he can twist around the end of his baton. He can feel it thrum on the strings, quiver in the reeds, press against the sweating palms of the percussionists. Sebastian holds them all, vibrating and fervent in his hands.

The baton flicks up and when it slices down, he pulls them violently along into the song with him; his eyes closed as he abandons everything but the sound.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

“Better.” There’s sweat on Sebastian’s forehead. He wipes it away, and looks up. A few of the faces in the crowd aren’t resentful, any more. Some might even be friendly. But there’re still things – moment when the band faltered, when he let them drop. But Sebastian can _hear_ it in his head now; how the score would sound, if he could convince this group to play it. They’re so close. Every musician is an instrument in his hands; and he can feel them coming in to tune.

Sebastian sets the baton down and steps forward. “ _Much_ better,” he repeats, with a slow nod at the cellos. He lets his eyes drag over the orchestra, holding them one by one. The quiet has a new quality, now. Sebastian no longer feels like he’s standing in front of a pack of wolves trying to convince them to take him as their alpha. Even Moriarty, a dark smudge behind the piano, doesn’t look quite so mocking.

Sebastian’d be bitter, if he could. Augustus’s perfect prodigy in the end after all.

But it _was_ better _._

“Only one thing,” Sebastian finishes. “And it’s big.” Nervous shuffling follows his words. Sebastian looks down at the first violins. “You’re out of tempo in the second movement. And you’re pulling them – “ with a jerk of his head at the rest of the orchestra – “Out with you. You stumbled over _più mosso,_ I think – or did you just decided to translate it as _don’t change a fucking thing?_ ” The violins are sullenly mute. Then, one by one, their eyes slide slowly to Sherlock. Sebastian follows their gaze, outraged. “What.”

“Glad you asked,” Sherlock says, bouncing out of his seat and to his feet. The Strat he takes time to delicately place down before he thrusts himself in Sebastian’s face. “There _shouldn’t_ be a change in tempo there. It’s rubbish.”

Sebastian considers Sherlock coldly. _Right, then,_ he wants to say, _you take this fucking job, I never wanted it anyways._ What comes out of his mouth is “What instrument do you play?” Sherlock’s eyes narrow, confused. Obviously he plays the violin. Sebastian steps back. “That’s right. You play the violin. And this – “ he picks up the baton, “You have no fucking idea what to do with. You are first chair. You’re the most talented violin in the section, without question, and you certainly think you’re the most talented musician in the orchestra.” Sherlock, sensing a trap, doesn’t say anything. Sebastian points the baton at his chest like a fencing rapier. “You’re probably not, but maybe.” He shrugs.

Sherlock’s pale eyes meet Sebastian’s, blazing fury and pride.

“Still. You don’t decide _how_ to play. _I_ do. And trust me – ” Sebastian drops his voice so the orchestra has to lean in to eavesdrop, “If you challenge me one more time, I _will_ hold auditions for reseating.”

It’s just like conducting. Tempo. Volume. Tone. Sebastian winds them around his voice, tight as a coiled spring, and if he hates himself for it he doesn’t let it show on his face. It’s effective, anyways. Sherlock bristles, but he steps down.

Or so Sebastian thinks. He turns away.

“And what instrument do _you_ play?" Sherlock snaps at Sebastian's back. The conductor stills. His hands curl into fists at his side, white and cold with anger.

He turns on his heel, slow and careful. Sherlock's bow hands loosely in his long fingered hand, tapping against his thigh. By the piano Sebastian can see Moriarty - paused in the middle of practicing fingering silently above the keys, those pale fingers frozen in the middle of their dance.

" _Fiddle_ ," Sebastian hisses in Sherlock's face, indulging the red-hot twist of anger surging through him. It's a mistake he'll hear about later, but right now - with Sherlock's polished curls shining like a prize poodle in front of him - he doesn't fucking care. “Now sit _down._ "

Sherlock's lip lifts in a sneer. He's not alone. Half the strings within hearing distance have just resisted the urge to spit. Sebastian, once again, can't bring himself to care. He stays where he is through the tense moment when he thinks Sherlock is going to say something, but with a prima donna sniff Sherlock flounces back to his chair.

"Anyone _else_?" Sebastian growls at the now-silent room. Over by the piano, Jim is grinning - wide and cruel. No one speaks. "Then go through it again," Sebastian tells them, "And this time, the violins _follow my fucking tempo_."

He raises his arms.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

 

“You didn’t have any helpful comments for _me_ ,” someone says, in the murky, shadowed hall. A lilting voice. Dark. There’s an implicit threat in that voice, although Sebastian can’t tell what it is.

Sebastian turns from locking the stage doors and there’s Moriarty; his head just slightly tilted, his eyebrows raised. He’s leaning on the wall of the corridor in a neat grey suit and tweed jacket, his hair in perfect place despite the long hours of practice.

“I wasn’t aware I had to,” Sebastian says carefully.

“Mmm.” Moriarty pushes himself off the walk and stalks forward towards Sebastian. There’s something about him that pushes Sebastian’s shoulder blades together; Moriarty may not even come up to Sebastian’s chin, but there’s a whispering sound as he moves that makes Sebastian’s spine prickle. “You didn’t,” Moriarty murmurs. He looks up at Sebastian through a haze of thick dark lashes. “I played nice for you tonight. I won’t again, you know.”

Sebastian firms his jaw, feeling his tendons tense with sounds he can’t seem to force out. It should be easy to tell Moriarty off the same as he’d done to Sherlock, but the words keep dying in his mouth.

“I…” he starts, but before he can finish, Moriarty is moving.

And _fuck,_ the man is fast. Before Sebastian can so much as _think_ , Moriarty’s slim finger is pressed against his lips – white and cold as bone in the darkness.

“You really should have said something to the fourth chair clarinet, though,” Moriarty purrs. He gives Sebastian a once over, slow and intimate. “You might do for the job, but he _never_ will.” Moriarty’s finger drags down Sebastian’s skin, pulling on the flesh of his lip.

His mocking smile breaks whatever mad trance he’s got Sebastian in. Sebastian jerks his head back and says with what he hopes is conviction, “You’re obviously out of it. You should go. If you’re lucky, I’ll chalk this up to nerves and _forget it happened._ ”

His voice isn’t weak, but it isn’t exactly strong either.

Moriarty steps back, the eerie smile still fixed on his face. “So you _don't_ know what I'm talking about,” he murmurs, sounding strangely surprised, his eyes gleaming with reflected light. “Better work on that, Maestro. It'll get you killed.” Sebastian’s heart pounds against the center of his breastbone. Moriarty laughs breathlessly and touches his fingers to his temple in a mocking salute. “See you tomorrow,” he smirks, and turns. Sebastian watches Moriarty amble across the red carpet all the way to the hall’s glass doors. He leans on them, face reflected in deep shadow and ethereal white. The doors lock behind him with clicks like coffin nails.

Only then does Sebastian feel it’s safe enough to breathe.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sebastian’s flat has four things in it; a bed, a computer, a coffee-maker, and a toilet. If there’s more to it, he doesn’t bother to find out. It’s on the third floor of a water-heated building, and in summer goes sweltering enough that being naked isn’t much comfort. When Sebastian kicks the door shut behind him, it already smells stale; of smoke and take-out bags left out to go stiff. His skin goes clammy instantly, sticky and uncomfortable with sweat.

Sebastian drops his keys on his coat by the door and stomps over to the bed without taking off his shoes. The sheets are dirty and mussed, but Sebastian can’t bring himself to care. Crisp white linens remind him too much of home, anyways.

Sebastian sits heavily on the bed and picks at the laces of his boots. They’re tied tight enough that he bends his nail backwards. He curses, toeing them off with relief. His socks are the next thing removed, left where they fall in a bad-smelling heap. His t-shirt drops on top, finishing the neat little pile of laundry beside an empty bottle of cheap rum. Sebastian shakes a smoke out of his jeans before he drops his pack and wallet as well. There’s a lighter and an ashtray balanced precariously on the window sill by his pillows, and he props himself up there.

Outside his window the city is dark and it’s just starting to rain. Sebastian can see lights in the dark, hundreds of them, like stars trapped down by the pavement. Someone’s playing music, loud but far enough away that Sebastian can only hear the thumping bass. He shuts his eyes, lights a smoke, and takes a deep, slow drag. The cigarette burns his lungs, leaves him breathless and tingling.

There’s a restless itch under his skin, and Sebastian knows he can only keep fighting it down for so long. Across from the bed, in his garbage dump of a closet, there’s a violin case on the shelf, rough and dull from years of hard use. An abused old sticker on the side proclaims _This Side Up_ , with an arrow pointing downwards.

Sebastian blows smoke towards the window without opening his eyes, and leans back on the headboard. He tries not to think about the orchestra, but he can still hear the Liszt, playing through the back of his mind, soft and delicate and sweet.

He tries not to like that.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ 

The next morning Sebastian is nursing a hangover like an axe-wound through his temple. He plows through the doors of the lobby with a coffee clutched tight in his hand, fifteen minutes early for practice. He’s tired enough that his mouth tastes dry and acidic, and the muscles of his legs are aching. As he shoulders the stage doors open, Sebastian groans and rubs a hand over his mouth. _Christ,_ he feels like he slept on a rock.

The hall is still empty, his footsteps echoing in the silence as he makes his way down the aisle towards the stage. There’re long shadows lying over the choir seating up in the wings. If Sebastian perches far enough back, no one’s going to see him until they’re already on stage. Seb shrugs his bag a little higher on his shoulder, smothering a yawn as he tramps up the stairs. Without anyone on the stage the space looks larger; music stands left out and abandoned like the skeletons of strange, ineffable beasts. Their slender shadows creep across the stage, black skeleton-bones on the beautiful hardwood. In the back the piano hunkers over them all, massive and old and ugly. Sebastian stops to look at it as he passes by; the white bone keys, neat, separated with short slashes of black like train marks.

He can’t help but picture Jim Moriarty’s fingers, clever and quick and unhesitating. _That,_ of course, leads to him picturing _Jim Moriarty._ Moriarty, looking up at Sebastian with those great dark eyes: hollow and utterly inhuman. A chill shivers up Sebastian’s spine to the back of his brain. He tries not to let it bug him. Jim Moriarty isn’t anything more than a piano player – posture however he likes.

Sebastian grits his teeth. He’s not going to be _scared off_ by some puffed-up industry _twink._

He leaves the piano where it is, brooding in the back of the stage, and takes a seat in the back of the choir section. His boots leave smears when he braces on the top of the seat in front of him. The smell of his coffee is thick in his nostrils, strong and dark and overpowering. Sebastian hugs his knees up nearly to his chest. The coffee-mug is hot enough to be hurting his fingers, and Sebastian adjusts his grip; twisting the cardboard sleeve around for a better angle. Warm moisture squeaks beneath his fingers. There’re little stains around the lid where the coffee has slopped over as he walked in. Sebastian licks them up idly, scanning the audience as he does. The drips are nearly hot enough to scald his tongue, bitter and black. Half the lights are off in the theatre, and the highest parts of the wings are shrouded in impenetrable shadow. Silence sits around the stage like a physical thing, thick and unbreakable. It’s still early, yet, but with the lack of windows it might be midnight. There’s a weird _timelessness_ to the space; like a fever dream, set neither in day or night.

 _Now you’re just being obtuse,_ Sebastian tells himself. He shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee.

It’s still boiling. Sebastian gulps down air to cool it on his tongue, the liquid searing his throat all the way down. He feels it warm in his stomach and chest like heartburn, right on the line between comforting and painful. Sebastian drops his bag beside him into the aisle and hunkers down a little deeper in his seat. _Not long now_ _._

Sherlock comes in first, unsurprisingly. A little bit _more_ surprisingly, he’s got Moriarty tucked under his arm, the shorter man ducking as Sherlock holds the door open. The sweeping hem of Sherlock’s Belstaff coat nips at Moriarty’s ankles as he passes the threshold. Sherlock is arguing with Moriarty about something, his face narrow and intent as he finishes whatever he’d been pronouncing on the way in. Sebastian thinks _rival;_ sees the smile Moriarty shoots sideways at Sherlock, and changes his mind. _Love affair?_

“I don’t think so,” Moriarty drawls, with that slight smile still hanging around his face. “Why don’t we wait and see, darling? I’ll even give you a _prize,_ if you’re right…”

Sherlock scowls. “I’m intelligent enough not to make the same mistake twice,” he snaps at Jim. Sherlock’s carrying a pressed black violin case, gleaming and faultless. Jim’s got a backpack slung over one shoulder, the leather strap dull brown against his spotless white t-shirt. His hair is a mess today, a great black cloud hanging around his ears and curling over the back of his neck. It looks like it’s never seen a brush. Sherlock, on the other hand, is spotless; under the Belstaff he’s wearing another neat, slender suit.

“No more bets?” Moriarty pouts, in mock disappointment, as they pass the second seating section. “Boo. Don’t be like that, now. Sometimes I think you’re going to get _mundane_ on me.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “What do you propose?” he asks. They’ve reached the edge of the stage, now. Sebastian draws himself a little further back into the shadows, lifting his coffee to his lips. Sherlock places one long, pale hand on the edge of the railing and uses it to fault over onto the stage, a smooth effortless motion like an acrobat. He reaches back and Jim takes his hand, letting Sherlock haul him upwards.

Sherlock doesn’t let go. From where Sebastian’s sitting, he can’t see the grip Sherlock has on Jim, but he can see Jim’s face as it tightens. Jim’s expression goes from lazily mocking to amused in a heartbeat, something challenging and anticipatory flicking around his eyes. Like a cat, seeing a mouse.

“Playing for dominance again?” Sherlock asks. He draws Jim forward.

Sebastian’s eyebrows raise in surprise. He watches as one of Jim’s pale hands runs up the back of Sherlock’s coat, skin white against the dark grey wool. His palm is flat, fingernails just slightly digging into the fabric. Sebastian’s coffee pauses in front of his lips, steam drifting up into his throat. Jim’s fingers card through Sherlock’s gleaming curls: black silk falling gracefully between his fingers. Something jumps in Sebastian’s chest. He can just see Jim’s face past Sherlock’s shoulder, smiling, his bones white and gleaming as he leans upwards. One of Jim’s canines glints in the low stage lighting, and Sebastian can half-feel the way his breath must be caught in his mouth. Jim’s fingers tighten in Sherlock’s hair, curling forward into a fist, slow and implacable. Sherlock shivers; a tremble that runs down him to his fingertips, loose and hanging at his sides.

“Careful,” Jim breathes, so quiet Sebastian has to lean forward to hear, “You’re going to make our conductor jealous.”

Sherlock and Sebastian go rigid in the same moment. Jim giggles. There’s just enough time for Sebastian to register the sound before Sherlock whirls around, his pale eyes searching the upper seats in what can only be described as a glare. Sebastian sets his coffee down on the armrest beside him, folding his arms over his chest. Jim lets Sherlock go, letting Sherlock’s curls fall back into perfect place as if they’d never been disturbed.

“You’re early,” Sherlock snaps, as Jim takes a step back to distance them. He looks for all the world like Sebastian’s just kicked his sandcastle over. The arrogant, petulant annoyance in his tone makes Sebastian’s hackles rise. _Fuck_ that guy.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Sebastian drawls back, deliberately insulting. Sherlock bristles. Jim’s smile widens. Sebastian lets his boots fall to the floor with a _thunk_ that echoes through the room. “But if you kids want to keep making out, by all means…” he says, grabbing his coffee and tromping down the stairs between the choir seats.

“I think we’re done,” Jim replies lightly, still smiling. Sherlock looks like he’s eaten something sour and disgusting, his face twisted sideways in distaste. When Sebastian gets level with them Sherlock draws himself up, straightening his shoulders and arching his spine to get himself taller.

Sebastian raises an eyebrow at him. “Problem, Holmes?”

If his Concertmaster is going to be this much of a tit, Sebastian’s going to have a fuck of a time controlling the orchestra. He rolls his neck out to crack his spine, watching Sherlock like they’re dogs jostling for top of the pack. The air between them is tense and oxygen-less, and Sebastian’s fingers twitch – half balling into fists before he can stop himself. Eventually, though, Sherlock scowls deeper and shakes his head, backing down.

It’s a reluctant victory, but Sebastian’ll take it. He lets his eyes slide to Jim’s. He doesn’t realize he’s been avoiding it until that dark gaze locks onto his. It’s electric, almost painfully vivid, like lightning playing down Sebastian’s spine. Jim’s smile is still lingering around his lips, a secretive curve that doesn’t quite manage to cover the sharp edge of his teeth.

“Oh, you don’t worry about me,” Jim purrs, shaking his head without breaking the eye contact, “I’m being _such_ a good boy.” There’s a criminal languidness about him, pleased and smooth and confident as a cougar prowling around a frozen deer. Sebastian gives him a hard look, but Moriarty doesn’t look shaken at all. “If you want I can keep it off stage from now on…”

“Do that,” Sebastian growls at Jim, not trusting himself to say more. “Both of you take your seats,” he adds, just to be on the safe side. Sherlock shoots another look at Jim, pale eyes narrow, and Sebastian just manages to catch a quick shake of Jim’s head before Sherlock turns away. His coat fans out like the hem of a dress, swirling around his knees as he strides for the Concertmaster’s chair.

“I do believe the poor dear is having a sulk,” Jim informs Sebastian idly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“I meant you too,” Sebastian snaps.

“I know you did, dear.” Jim looks up at Sebastian fondly, his smile promising things Sebastian doesn’t want to consider, “I know.”

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ 

The next person in is Molly Hooper, a dull little second violinist who still managed to grab the job of orchestra secretary. She practically throws the sheet music at Sebastian, her face pale with fear, and scurries to the piano where Jim’s finally taken up residence. Sebastian has an absurd urge to yell _boo._ Molly slides onto the bench beside Jim with a sigh of relief. One of his arms curls around her waist. Sebastian raises his eyebrows, and glances over at Sherlock; tuning in the Concertmaster’s seat. He must not be able to see them entirely; but he glares at the high back of the piano, behind which Jim’s wild hair is just barely visible.

Sebastian rolls his eyes. Orchestra politics. He places his cooling coffee between his feet on the stage stairs and cracks his knuckles. Well, Jim wouldn’t be the first piano player Seb’s conducted who needs a beard. From the stage steps, Sebastian can just see behind the piano; Molly’s body shields Jim from his view, but he can see Jim’s pale fingers on Molly’s waist and the simpering, patiently fake expression Jim’s got plastered on his face. As Sebastian watches Molly leans in to whisper something in Jim’s ear, her dirty-blonde hair falling in a curtain to hide their faces. She’s gripping the edge of the piano bench, delicate hands freckled over her slender tendons. Sebastian can’t help but feel that she’s a scared mouse, tucking her head under the chin of the cat.

Jim’s giggle dances through the air, light as collar-bells. For some reason, it cuts through Seb’s ears like glass. Sebastian grits his teeth, and stands – narrowly missing knocking his coffee over entirely. It rattles precariously and Seb bends down to scoop it up before it can fall. The action makes him miss the entrance of two trumpet players; by the time he straightens, flicking cold black liquid from his fingers, they’re already chattering their way to their seats.

The orchestra trickles in by ones and twos; none of them manage quite as interesting entrances as Jim and Sherlock, although that could be Sebastian’s prejudice. Every time he tries to pay more attention to the musicians trickling in, his mind strays. He recognizes a few of them: there’s John, the percussionist, a good looking man with a military haircut who raises a friendly hand to Sebastian as he comes in; Anderson, a nondescript little oboe who’s somehow earned himself an evil look from Sherlock, although Sebastian doesn’t really care to ask why.

Jim, on the piano bench, is playing Mozart with one hand, the melody only. His other hand taps out the bass fingering on Molly’s waist. She giggles, catching one hand to her mouth, and swaying along. The violin case beside her lies forgotten, tipped over to one side. Every time Jim manages a particularly difficult phrase, Molly’s breath catches delightedly in her throat. Sebastian’s teeth grind together. He can imagine Jim’s spider fingers, jumping and stretching over the keys, deft and clever and brilliant.

He can almost feel the ghost of the melody Jim’s playing, tapped out in bass against his ribs.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ 

Sebastian raises his arms. The orchestra silences, one by one, the instruments dropping off politely as he waits. Sherlock, at the front, eyes Sebastian narrowly; his violin tucked neatly up under his chin and his pale fingers paused over the strings, ready to begin. Molly, in the second violins, has a flush high on her cheeks, two florid spots of red like fever or chill. Sebastian’s stomach rolls hotly at that, although he’s not entirely sure why.

In the back John’s got his timpani mallets raised, balanced light and sure in his loose grip. Sebastian looks up to him, collecting the tension in John’s muscular arms with his eyes. John nods, short and tight. Sebastian nods back. He scans the strings, the woodwinds, gives the trumpets a warning flick of his eyes that straightens their spines like ramrods.

The power of it is almost dizzying. Sebastian can feel it spread along his veins, over the rigid muscles of his raised arms, tingling its way down to his fingers light on the baton. _Ready,_ he thinks, and raises his arms. The orchestra draws breath and picks up their instruments as one great living creature, like Sebastian’s lungs are driving them all. The baton hits high, arching up in a straight slicing line, and their pulse beats; Sebastian can nearly feel it on the air, the way involuntary motion gathers them all together into one synchronized being. He breathes inwards, holds it. He can taste the reeds on the tongues of the clarinets, the harsh cut of strings into the fingers of the violins. _Ready – and –_ Sebastian’s baton falls, and he throws them downwards towards the first note, feeling for the moment when they’ll come in as one –

The piano starts before cue.

Sebastian nearly trips over it. A single note, cast out like a fishing line into the silence. It should be _wrong,_ but on his intake, as the baton rises again and the composition begins, he can hear the piano fall into step, and for a moment it’s perfect. Then Jim’s out again. Sebastian snarls, although he doesn’t pause; the rest of them are there, drawn on by the rumbling backbone of John on the timpani. Sherlock pulls them forward, carrying the melody almost entirely alone at first. Sebastian holds out a hand to the woodwinds, gathering them together, resting them on the edge of their cue. It should be breathless anticipation, but it’s _not._ The piano is there, where there should be anxious silence.

Jim weaves something through the rest of the orchestra that isn’t Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5 at all. It isn’t close. It intentionally isn’t even close. Teasing, lilting, dancing around the notes it should be playing like it refuses to listen to the rest of the orchestra, Jim’s melody isn’t a part of the song as much as it’s an antagonist to it.

Augustus Moran would have been furious. He would have stopped the orchestra, grabbed a fistful of Jim’s hair, and thrown him out of the theatre doors. Any sane conductor would; what Jim’s doing –

It should be awful.

It should be dissonant.

It’s not. Jim seems to follow Sebastian on some level deeper than music, his slender shoulders twisting his back into an arch as he plays counter-point to them; as he plays _antagonist_ to them; as he plays threats, intimidation, violence. Wherever Sebastian needs Jim - when the trumpets falter, when the cellos fall off tempo - Jim’s there, instinctively, score or no score. It’s better than synchronicity. Better than perfect.

Sebastian’s breath is short in his lungs and he knows there’s sweat on his brow. He feels more than sees Jim toss his head back at the climax of the song, fingers spread until his skin tightens against bone as he slams them down on the keys. Jim’s mouth is open, eyes shut, lost in something deeper than sound.

Sebastian collects the woodwinds with his fists and feeds them the melody, his baton setting the violins after them like baying dogs on a fox. The woodwinds are shrill, desperate, Sebastian chasing them up the scale without room for pause or for breath. Sebastian loses sight of the sheet music; it seems irrelevant, now, with Jim harrying the melody behind him.

The violins swell, snatching the melody and singing jubilant and exultant, and Sebastian knows without thinking that what Shostakovich calls for – the piano, sweet and comforting – won’t follow. It _can’t_ follow. He’ll lose them.

For once, Sherlock manages the change in tempo Sebastian throws to him, leading the violins in a great leap of sound. Sebastian hangs on the edge of it, breathless, knowing it’s about to fall flat when the piano betrays them, playing a melody that’s suddenly become wrong.

The sheet music will call for Jim to be sweet. He can’t be.

Sebastian stabs four fingers at the piano, stretching for something just out of his reach, and behind it he sees Jim’s dark eyes; open, glittering, fever-bright and utterly insane.

 _Now, Jim, **now** – _Sebastian thinks, holding the violins back, wishing for the impossible he knows Jim can’t accomplish -

And Jim plays a chord, harsh and strident, where there should be only delicate eighths. And Jim throws his head back again, and Jim ignores what’s been written and Jim is, impossibly, perfect.

The orchestra breaks like a wave into the final movement, Jim’s throat bared and his hair sweat-damp on his forehead, his melody soaring above and around and beyond them, like his body is made of nothing but infinite sound.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ 

There are footsteps in the dark hall behind him. “You _do_ understand,” someone says, so softly Sebastian wouldn’t hear if it wasn’t silent. “You know, I wondered. Most conductors don’t.”

“I thought you left with Sherlock,” Sebastian says, turning from the light switch. The room is entirely black, now, except for the light falling in between the lobby doors. Jim is standing, leaned up against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his slender chest. His shirt is damp in the front from sweat and he’s pushed his hair black, fly-away ends pressed tight against his skull.

“I did,” Jim agrees. He doesn’t move. He’s holding something rolled up in his hand; a news-paper, maybe.

“Forget something?” Sebastian asks, turning from the lights towards the doors. He fishes the hall’s key out of his pocket. Jim moves aside when Sebastian gets close, stepping back onto the carpet of the lobby. His feet make no sound. Sebastian’s neck prickles when Jim stands behind him, although he doesn’t have a good reason for that so he tries not to acknowledge it. The hall doors swing silently shut, and Sebastian fixes the chain carefully around them.

“I might have,” Jim says thoughtfully, “Now that you mention it.” There’s a heavy padlock, which clicks shut loud enough to be a handgun. Sebastian tugs on it twice to make sure that it’s locked before he turns to face Jim, slow and careful.

“I thought you might want this,” Jim says, levelly. His expression is entirely blank, so utterly robotic Sebastian can’t read anything in it at all. He might as well be a store manikin; his dark eyes shaded behind thick lashes.

Jim’s holding a newspaper out; ink smeared where sweat has wiped across it.

 _ACCLAIMED CLARINET PLAYER FOUND DEAD,_ the headline reads. Underneath it, there’s a picture; something blurry and just a bit out of focus, stolen from a crime scene. The clarinet player’s head is thrown back at an awkward angle as he sits on stage, rigidly forced back against his spine.

That might have something to do with the instrument shoved down his neck.

Sebastian freezes. Even in the low-resolution photo, he can see the keys of the clarinet, pressing outwards on the dead man’s throat. Each one is picked out, unforgiving, bruises already starting to form around the bulges. Sebastian’s aches just looking at it; there’s a sick, queasy feeling in his stomach as he takes in the man’s bloodied hands, hanging loose at his sides.

The clarinet player had obviously struggled. It obviously hadn’t helped.

Sebastian’s throat is dry, and it takes a moment before his mouth is willing to work. He _recognizes_ the man. Several thoughts run through Sebastian’s mind simultaneously, drowning each other out until he’s not sure he’s thinking anything at all.

The first thing out of his mouth, bizarrely, inappropriately, is, “He squeaked. The first practice.”

“Yes,” Jim Moriarty says, “He did.”


	3. Chapter 3

<Did you kill him? 20:21 2014/10/13>

<Ask a girl out to dinner before you look up her skirt. -JM xx 20:25 2014/10/13>

<I AM asking. 20:26 2014/10/13>

<Smart boy. -JM xx 20:31 2014/10/13>

<Friday night. Eight PM. The Mint. -JM xx 20:40 2014/10/13>

<What about Sherlock? 20:40 2014/10/13>

<What ABOUT Sherlock. -JM xx 20:45 2014/10/13>

<He's not going to have a problem with that? 20:46 2014/10/13>

<Well, if he does, you'll find out friday night. If you show up. Don't text me again, dear, neediness isn't a turn on. -JM xx 21:15 2014/10/13>

♫ ♫♫♫ 

Jim doesn't do things by halves. The Mint is a dark, narrow restaurant with a low ceiling and a fourth wall that opens directly onto an abandoned loading dock. It practically screams _illicit love-affair._ The walls are brick, the bar polished honey-oak. Glasses gleam beneath the green bar lights.And it's private. Mysterious. It's tucked away underneath a heritage building downtown, so that when he's walking by Sebastian nearly misses the entrance. The only sign of the restaurant from the sidewalk is a welded metal sign and a set of narrow, steep steps. They disappear down to a tiny iron grate that screeches when Sebastian pushes it open. By eight pm the sun is setting and there's delicate, purple light coming in from the loading dock. Candles are set out on the booths and the small, round tables.

And Jim Moriarty is the only one there.

He looks up as Sebastian comes in, a sly smile on his face and his eyes glittering in the candlelight. He's sitting near the back of the room, wearing a deep red shirt. His sleeves are pushed up to the elbows and his white fingers drum on the table like he's missing his piano. Sebastian licks his lips. It seems like it's a long way through the restaurant.  Sebastian swallows. Jim doesn't look away; not once. Sebastian's not even sure if he blinks.

The music playing in the background is Helmut Lachenmann, so complex it's almost distracting. Once Sebastian notices, it's impossible to ignore. There's a section of woodwinds doing something that Sebastian isn't sure is entirely _possible_ \- he shuts his eyes, tilts his head to the side and shakes it, narrowly avoiding bouncing off a table. Jim giggles: a light sound, dancing around the high notes. Sebastian opens his eyes to see Jim leaning forward over the table.

"Can't help it, can you?" he asks, eyes glittering with interest.

The strings are falling through scales, playing a tone that has Sebastian a little dizzy. At this point Lachenmann is definitely just making up sounds. Sebastian pulls out a chair across from Jim and falls into it. "Help what?" he asks distractedly.

"Picking out the notes... dissecting the instruments..." Jim reaches across the table and walks his fingers up Sebastian's arm. The hair on Sebastian's arm raise after his touch, like a trail. "It's _compulsive._ Did it hurt when they drilled it into you, darling?" His head tilts, his eyes wide. He looks like he's tearing off Sebastian's skin in his head, searching for something deep underneath.

A chill sweeps over Sebastian's skin. He yanks his arm back. "I didn't come here to talk about this."

Jim retracts his fingers, trailing them over the table. He makes a face of mild discontent, like Sebastian's refused him a favorite dessert. "What if I did?" he asks thoughtfully, running his hand back and forth over the candle on the table. Sebastian can see the heat of it coil around his palm, golden and comforting.

"I can always walk out."

"I don't think you can." Jim raises his fingers in a stalling motion and Sebastian looks over his shoulder to see a waiter stop halfway out of the doors to the kitchen, two glasses of water on a tray in his hand. Sebastian glances back at Jim. He hasn't looked away, and Sebastian finds it hard to keep eye contact. Jim's lip is sucked in over his teeth. Seb turns quickly away before he can even _start_ following the train of thought _that_ inspires. Out in the loading bay, there's a crow picking at garbage scraps, feathers gleaming. The concrete is almost violet in the setting sun. Lachenmann's pulling a sound from the strings like a scream in harmony. Sebastian's eyes slide half shut, listening.

"See?" Jim asks softly. "Look at you. Even when you're trying not to." Sebastian's eyes flick open, and he glances back to Jim. Jim's chin is resting in his palm, fingers curled around his jaw. "Once you're trained, you stay trained. Were you a soldier, Sebastian?"

"Briefly." The Lachenmann fades into silence, and Sebastian lets it go with relief.

"Briefly?"

"I got recalled." Sebastian can feel the muscles in his jaw tense just remembering: Augustus' voice on the phone line; his quiet, solid purr that never changed volume or speed. _I see you've taken your vacation as an opportunity to escape me. I don't need to tell you how foolish that was, do I?_ The sharp spiral of fear that had coiled around Sebastian's stomach never loosened; not through basic, not through deployment, not when Augustus' man finally tracked him down -

The scars over Sebastian's ribs twinge. He presses a hand into his side absentmindedly.

"Yes," Jim says abruptly, "I killed him." Sebastian's eyes jump up. Jim licks his finger and plays it through the candle flame, watching with fascination. "The clarinet player, obviously. Did that get your attention? Finally? Don't look so morose, dear, I know why you got _recalled._ " Jim rolls his eyes at Sebastian irritably. " _Obviously_ once they beat you into obedience they didn't let you _go._ " He catches Sebastian's gaze, then, and holds it. "Why would they?" he asks, barely above a whisper. His eyes have an seductive side too, Sebastian decides; somewhere there in the darkness is a thread of temptation, a promise of a consuming absolution.

An offer Sebastian can't take. He can still feel Augustus' breath on the back of his neck. Jim's hand curls into a fist over the candle. The silence stretches out between them, awkward and forced.

"How would you know?" Sebastian asks finally, looking down at his hands in his lap. His voice comes out a little bit rough and vulnerable. There are bruises on his knuckles. When did that happen? He doesn't remember. He can't think. All he can feel is that sick fear around his gut like a noose.

A cold finger slides under Sebastian's chin.

The fear clears immediately, and so do his thoughts. His head jerks up. Jim's leaned forward over the table, reaching out to Sebastian, a slight frown tugging around the corners of his lips. Sebastian sucks a breath in to snap at him, feeling it hiss over his teeth.

Jim taps the underside of his chin. Lightly. Just once.

Sebastian shuts up on instinct, then hates himself for doing it. A muscle in his jaw twitches. He glares at Jim across the table, wishing he had the balls to tell Jim no one ever _trained_ him. No one ever drilled anything into him. If he could just deny it - but he can't. He can't even pull away from Jim's gentle touch. There's a thoughtful expression on Jim's face, now. He runs the pad of his finger along Sebastian's jaw - just the one finger - up over his stubble to the bone of Sebastian's cheek. He's so close that Sebastian doesn't seem to have room to breathe.

Jim doesn't pull away when he speaks. " _I_ certainly wouldn't let you go, if it was me who trained you."

Sebastian's breath nearly stops in his mouth. He tries to make words come together, but they don't seem to want to connect. "If - you - "

"If I trained you, yes." Jim leans back across the table, settling into his seat. It doesn't make it any easier for Sebastian to draw air. Jim lifts two fingers and makes a beckoning gesture to the air above Sebastian's head. "Would you rather have had that? I wouldn't have been any kinder than they were, you know."

Sebastian stares at him in abject shock for a moment. It's an insane thing to say. Beyond insane. The whole conversation is. Sebastian stares at Jim, blank, practically not seeing him for the sheer impossibility of it. Jim is pale above his blood red shirt, his hair shadow-black like his eyes, like he's only made of three colours. Sebastian doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to _deal_ with this. It's the sort of conversation that doesn't _happen_ in real life; not to sane people, not to anyone outside a fucking Third World _slave_ ring.

Sebastian shakes his head, and again when the first time doesn't help. "This isn't happening," he says lamely, to the sunlight above Jim's head.

"Denial? I expected better." Jim twirls his fingers in the air, motioning Sebastian to get on with it. "Let's hear it, then." The waiter appears between them before Sebastian can speak again, and there's a moment of tense silence as he sets two glasses of water down on the table. Jim's hand lingers in the air, and when the waiter hesitates - wondering if he should speak - Jim makes a flicking motion like throwing off drips from his fingers. Sebastian doesn't want to watch anymore. He drops his chin and curls his hands around his glass. The waiter hustles off, tight black shoes squeaking over the hardwood floors.

"You - you _can't have - "_

Jim sighs. "Yes, I killed the clarinet player," he says, quick and businesslike. "And no, you're not shocked or horrified or all those other things you think you should be." He sounds bored. Sebastian glances up and finds Jim picking his fingers, shadowy lashes hiding his eyes. "You grew up broken and you're still broken. Did you think I hadn't noticed?" When Jim finally looks up, his gaze is unwavering, and absolutely cold. His nail digs into his cuticle, picking at the hanging flesh until he draws blood. "It's a little bit tedious, to be honest. But unfortunately, I _need_ someone like you."

"A conductor," Sebastian says, not altogether sure if he's following what's going on.

"If you like." Jim leans back in his chair. He's got an expression on his face like nothing Sebastian's ever seen. Seb has no idea - _none_ \- what Jim is thinking. "I _will_ keep you, unless you force me to do otherwise. You can force me to reconsider my plans, and dispose of you. I'm asking you now not to do that to either of us."

Sebastian takes a breath, but can't think of a response. _So if I don't conduct well, Augustus will kill me, and you'll grind up the bones.  
_

"If that's all, I ordered you the lobster bisque," Jim drawls. "Enjoy it." He stands, as if that's what he planned to do all along, and walks out. Leaving Sebastian in the dark. With the flickering candles, and the waiter's squeaking black shoes.

Sebastian can't breathe. He can't think. Not with the Mint's choking low ceiling, not with the noisy neon buzzing like wasps in his brain. He can't eat fucking _lobster bisque_ while he's got this memory of Augustus sitting cold and fucking dead in his stomach.

He needs something _alive._

Sebastian takes the underground as far as his apartment because cabs are impersonal. On the train there's a man with a red nose and whiskey on his breath, humming _Geordie_ under his breath. Sebastian taps time on his knees and prays not to be noticed. There's a symphony poster on the station wall, tagged in bright orange letters.

Sebastian ignores it.

He takes the violin case off his shelf; blows a thin layer of dust onto the floor. _This Side Up,_ it tells him. Pointing the wrong way down.

♫ ♫♫♫ 

The bar is dark and noisy already, even though the band hasn't started yet. The dance floor's pretty much cleared, but it's full through the bar. Barely enough room for the servers to breathe. There's a tinny recording playing too loud in the background, something Old Country and wild. Sebastian shoves through the packed crowd to the bar, using his elbows to make space. There's a lot of flannel in the bar tonight, but just as much leather - thank the Dropkick Murphy's for that.

The bartender is a brave young soul with big Irish eyes and a chest Sebastian could suffocate himself in. "Hey," she yells, over the sound of the music and with a toss of her ginger hair. "Back again?" She turns to fetch him a Dos Equis, not offering for cash.

"Got a spot for me, Maggie?"

"Think they'd fire the band just to clear you a night." Maggie grins at him. "Same as always?" She slides the beer over the bar. Sebastian hoists his case up so she can see, with a sheepish smile. "Alright, then, 'Bas. Get yourself onto the stage."

♫

From the stage the whole bar looks dark, although it's too small for anything to disappear. Sebastian's close enough to the crowd to kick the teeth out of the man in front of him. He sets his case down on a bar stool and flicks the catches open. The stage lights are bright enough to glare on the smooth wood of his Strad. He runs his fingers over it, the delicate carvings on the edges. There's a thick white band of rosin dust under the strings, just above the bridge.

"Let's hear some _fiddle!"_ someone shouts, far away and unimportant in the crowd. There's a cheer that goes up after it, a roar like waves in the background. Sebastian takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out slow. The Strad in its case glows like a sun, like the only thing in the room. He lifts it, slow and careful, almost reverent.

There's a sheen to the wood like the barrel of a gun.

Sebastian licks his lips and lifts the Strad to his chin. There's a coil of tension in his chest, tense enough that it feels hard to breathe. The stage lights are hot: hot enough to bead sweat on his brow. He sets the Strad down again and pulls off his jacket. After a second thought, his shirt follows, leaving him bare-chested in front of the mike stand. Some brave soul in the back wolf-whistles, long and loud enough that it sets the crowd laughing. Sebastian grins. He stretches out, to a round of applause, and picks up the Strad. Most of the crowd is too far back to see the thick white scars on Sebastian's shoulders and chest, and those who can probably think it's a trick of the dark.

No use thinking of it now. He sets the Strad under his chin and rattles off a lick with a quick nod towards the whistler. There's another round of laughter out in the dark where Sebastian can't see, which settles the mood of the bar in Sebastian's opinion. There's a smell of cigarette smoke and cheap beer in the air, and Sebastian has never, _never_ felt this alive on a symphony stage.

He plays the first sharp notes of the Tarbolton Reel like fire-crackers. Like gunshots. Like accusations into the darkness, a challenge, the only warning the crowd'll get. Someone's smart enough to whoop, knowing what he's doing. Sebastian smiles - a wide, sharp thing.

Sebastian does the reel fast and brutal - the way he does everything. No hesitation, no pause. It's like an electric waterfall, pouring down his spine. He feels it bend him, arc him forward under the sweating stage lights. It's not orchestra music, and it never could be - it's simple, too quick and dirty for the individual notes to lick across his bow the way they should. It's beneath him. God, Sebastian can play Sibelius's Violin Concerto in D Minor - eyes closed, backwards, with his fucking _cock_ in his hand -

But Sibelius's Violin Concerto in D Minor isn't _this._

There's a different sound to the crowd, now. People are clapping - keeping time. Someone's stomping their boots out in the dark. Christ, people don't _dance_ to Concertos. Sebastian swings his hips around, feeling the bob and hop of the reel jumping out over the air. Someone laughs. There's a girl in the front row spinning now; whirling around; snapping her fingers as her skirt flares out. Sebastian's heel is tapping. He laughs, nodding to the girl in the front row. She's got straight-cut bangs and a braid that wraps around the back of her slender neck. She shakes her shoulders, grinning, bumping her chest to Sebastian's time. He grins back, miming her shimmy-and-shake. She laughs. Sebastian lifts his foot and stomps, twisting on his toe. A fucking whirling dervish, that's Sebastian. He laughs, as best he can with the Strad under his chin, spinning in goddamn circles on the stage. What would Augustus call him? A trained fucking monkey.

His combat boots make a satisfyingly loud sound against the wood slats of the bar's stage. A woman with a black vest and swept-back blue hair hops onto the stage and makes for the drum set. Sebastian swings to watch her, putting his back to the crowd. She sits behind the snare like she owns it, and hey, maybe she does. Sebastian shakes his hips, soliciting another wolf-whistle from the crowd. It's the right music for it. Sebastian's fingers dance and rasp over the strings, the music so light it seems to step over and around the air rather than through it.

He arcs backwards, as far as he can, nearly losing his balance. It doesn't matter. There's a rocking method, an up and down of notes that runs the length of Sebastian's body, tightening every string in him. They're getting close now - getting faster, getting breathless.

The girl in the front row has her bangs stuck to the sweat on her forehead, and the front of her dress is dark. Sebastian turns to her and tilts his shoulders down, half a bow as he plays out the last third as a challenge - direct to her, like a flirtation. She stretches out her wrists to him, slender and fragile, throwing her dark head back against her shoulders. She looks mindless. She looks like she's just _come._ Sebastian has to bite his lip just to play out the song.

That, that, _that -_

Christ, you can't get _that_ in a concert hall. There's nothing but the sound. Nothing but the strings, singing under his fingers.

He finishes to a round of applause so loud it drags him back to his body. He crashes down into sweat and the smell of cheap beer, blinking dazedly. There's a beer waiting by his case on the bar stool and Sebastian staggers to it. The crowd cheers again when he downs it in one pull, maybe louder than they cheered for his song. Sebastian wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and sets the empty beer bottle back down.

He'll be fucked if he stops with one tonight.

♫ ♫♫♫ 

"Sebastian."

Sebastian groans and pushes himself up out of bed. The sheets are sticking to the sweat on his skin, the cheap stink of beer and sex hanging around his hair. He presses the phone to his ear and rubs two fingers over his eyelids.

It can't be much past five am, but then, he should be up already. Drilling. Practicing. "Yeah?" Sebastian says, trying not to sound groggy.

"I'm disappointed."

And just like that Sebastian's spine is a steel girder. A railroad-spike, like someone drove it down the back of his neck to the base of his spine. He straightens so fast it's almost painful, his head going clear and cold like he's frozen straight into ice. "Yes, sir."

"I'll expect better."

Fear is tight enough around Sebastian's throat that he's in physical pain. " _Yes Sir,_ "  he manages, a helpless gasp. The click that follows is a slap to the face. Sebastian drops the phone to the dirty sheets and falls back. He shuts his eyes. _Ah, Christ. Ah fuck._ He'll do better. He may hate himself for that, but he'll do better.

It's not like he has a choice.


	4. Chapter 4

Sebastian stomps into practice like the grudge on his shoulder is a ten-ton weight. “Alright,” he growls, “Listen up.”

There isn’t a perceptible dent in the din; but then again, he wasn’t really expecting that. He’d be surprised if most people even noticed he’d entered the room. Most of the musicians are in their seats already. Sebastian strips his jacket and tosses it over the stage railing before turning to face the orchestra again. Up in the risers Jim is whispering something in Molly Hooper’s ear, twisting a lock of her hair around his finger. The skin under his nail is going white from the constriction.

“ _Alright,_ ” Sebastian says, louder, “Listen _up._ ”

The first row violins calm down, but that’s about all the difference shouting makes. Sebastian takes a long, slow breath. There’s a pounding ache in his temples and his mouth tastes dry from lack of sleep. Or maybe that’s from the hangover. When he rubs a hand over his face it comes away wet – some combination of snot and spit and tears he still hasn’t bothered to clean off from last night. Christ, had he showered? Seb can’t remember.

He can’t remember anything but Augustus’ voice. _Don’t go back to sleep, **boy** , not until you’ve got the fifth movement right. Or I **will** consider it necessary to discipline you._

Sebastian’s fingers hurt worse than his brain, and that’s saying something. He’s rubbed the pads of them bloody pretending he still has the same callouses he used to, and the worst part of it – well, the worst part of it has to be that he _did_ get the fifth right in the end. And sent Augustus a recording of it.

 _Tell me I’m still Daddy’s good boy,_ Sebastian thinks, thick with self-loathing.

“Need some peace and quiet?” a friendly voice asks, somewhere over his left shoulder. Sebastian starts, and turns around. One of the percussion is standing there, sticks shoved in the back pocket of his worn-out blue jeans. He’s got mousy blonde hair and a creased smile that looks too old for his compact soldier’s build. _John,_ Sebastian dredges up out of his hazy memory. _Ex-military orchestra, good with dynamics, doesn’t run anyone over._

He nods, slowly. It doesn’t seem worth it to lie.

“Looked like you might,” John says brightly, then nods at the stage. “Don’t mind them, then. You set up down here.” He draws the sticks out of his pocket and adds grimly, “Like to see this lot play through me having a really determined go at the timpani.”

Sebastian blinks. He scrubs a hand through his hair again, his scalp itchy and foul. “Appreciate that,” he says, finally, although he’s not really sure that he does. The last thing he needs now is some good-hearted attempt to save him from whatever pissy little crisis he’s having.

“Yes, well,” John shrugs. “It was a rough night, wasn’t it?”

Sebastian licks his top lip as he takes what he hopes is a calming breath. He’ll fucking kill himself before he’ll lean down to cry on someone’s shoulder – drummer’s arm muscles or not.

That must show on his face as clearly as the bad night does, because John holds up a hand to stop Seb yelling. “Nope. Don’t worry about it. I’ll calm the bastards down for you, shall I?”

Seb looks at John levelly for a moment, trying to figure out his angle. John looks back. He’s got crow’s feet, and there’s something about his expression that says he knows exactly what Sebastian is doing.

Seb can respect someone who isn’t afraid of inspection. “Alright,” he decides, returning John’s shrug. “Show me what you can do.”

John claps Sebastian on the shoulder and pushes his way through the seats to the percussion section.

His t-shirt is loose everywhere except for across his shoulders: hanging in straight, baggy lines down to his waist. He’s short, compact rather than stocky, and walks a little bit stiffly. Favouring his left leg. He’s got nice arms, though. And shoulders, judging from the fit of that t-shirt.

 _Christ, this is **not** the time._ Sebastian rubs a knuckle over his eyes. He needs to sleep.

As he arranges his sheet music on the conductor’s stand Sebastian can’t help noticing that John nods to Sherlock, a short tense thing that practically screams _orchestra drama_. Up in the back Jim’s leaned so far in to Molly’s ear that his face is hidden behind her hair, although Seb can still see his jaw work as he whispers. Her face is flushing, slowly turning a delicate shade of pink Seb associates with pastel china and bad paintings of kittens.

There’s something foul in Sebastian’s mouth. He looks down again, making sure all his pages are in the right order, then watches as John takes his seat in the percussion section. No one else is paying attention. The room is just as loud as it had been when Sebastian walked in. The orchestra is warming up all in their own little worlds, playing a hundred different dissonant songs at once. It’s the musical equivalent of a clusterfuck. One of the clarinets has a reed stuck in her mouth and is absent-mindedly drumming the melody on her stand with her ringed fingers. In the back John settles comfortably on his stool and spins himself around, taking his bearings. He reaches out and taps one of the symbols with the back of a close-cropped nail, nodding to himself at the sound it makes. Sebastian can’t hear it over the din.

With a kick of his foot against the floor John sends his chair rolling over to the timpani. He runs his hand over his mallet-stand, wiggling his fingers with his tongue caught in his teeth. He’s got wide hands, with short quick fingers and little nicks of scar over his tendons. He looks ready to raise hell. Sebastian’s eyes flick to Jim, at the piano, making Molly Hooper breathe through parted lips.

The hollow, metallic thunder of John’s timpani’s booms suddenly out of the din. Jim might be the only person in the room other than Sebastian that doesn’t jump. Half the orchestra flinches and the other half snap their necks turning to look. The timpani sounds huge and round and pervasive, like the room is a brass rotunda that someone’s ringing with a massive hammer.

John braces himself on the front of his seat, feet planted wide on the ground like reverb from the drums is driving him physically backwards. The muscles in his shoulders and neck stand out as he plays, his head ducked and his sandy blonde hair brushing his forehead. The sound echoes back and forth between the empty boxes, pressing against the arched rafters. Sebastian’s smiling. True to John’s promise, the rest of the orchestra finds it impossible to keep playing. The drums die away slowly, brass thunder falling away in rolling waves to cat’s paw padding, there’s nothing left in the room but a huge and hollow silence as loud as the sound had been.

In the silence Seb hears two hissing, indrawn breaths, taken almost simultaneously. Sebastian recognizes Sherlock’s voice, and Jim’s, and grits his teeth. He doesn’t look around to meet their eyes; He doesn’t want to know what they’re thinking. It would only piss him off more.

“Alright,” Sebastian says to the orchestra, for the third time that day, “Listen up. I got a few emails asking me several shades of _what the fuck_ after last practice and I get it.” He tries to sound more energetic than he feels, and it looks like most of the orchestra buys it. There’s scattered laughter. “No, I do. I do. Piano improvisations are _not_ in the script.” He holds up his hands, playing for silence, playing _casual._ “But s’long as it sounds better than Shostakovich, we’ll keep playing it. Let me and Jim figure out the piano – you just keep one eye on me and the other on the music.”

“If you still _need_ the music,” Sherlock drawls.

Sebastian scowls, glancing around for the first time to glare at Sherlock. Sherlock sneers condescendingly back. “Yeah, thanks, I think we’re all – “

“Just one question, actually,” Jim interrupts, from the back of the room.

Sebastian’s starting to dread that.

He looks up. Jim’s perched on the very edge of the piano bench with Molly dangled off one of his legs. She’s got her arm wrapped protectively around Jim’s small waist, her fingers clutched white-knuckle tight in his black sweater. Jim’s eyes are lit up like a psychopath eyeing a small, defenseless animal; his lips parted breathlessly over a smile.

Sebastian wants to be sick. He doesn’t have the energy for these fucking games, not today. “What problem’s that?” he asks, playing obtuse and hoping Jim will have the sense to give it up.

“What _happened_ to you last night?” Jim asks.

And just like that everything goes cold. The list of things Sebastian doesn’t want to discuss with his incredibly enticing and lethal piano diva has to be headed by Number 1, Section A: Sebastian’s _fucked up_ childhood.

He’s not doing this. “Get out,” Sebastian says flatly. Jim’s eyebrows rise in an expression of honest, unguarded surprise, and Sebastian feels a short surge of perverse pleasure at catching him off guard.

“Excuse me?”

People are turning to look at him, following Sebastian’s steel gaze. “You heard me,” Seb says, pointing to the door. He doesn’t care what the rest of the orchestra thinks. He doesn’t care if he’s being petty. The last thing he wants is a rabid dog like Jim knowing the things that _really_ cut him open. “Out. You can come back next practice.”

He almost thinks Jim’s eyebrows will disappear into his hairline. Jim lets go of Molly’s waist to lean forward, intensely fascinated. “You’re actually kicking me out,” he says, slowly, like he’s tasting each word in his mouth. Like Sebastian has given him something deliciously sweet to roll on his tongue. “ _Really_.”

Sebastian stands to one side and gestures Jim to the door. It makes Jim laugh. He stands and stretches, slow and luxurious, arcing his back like a cat. Taking his goddamn time. Sebastian sets his jaw and crosses his arms tightly over his chest, refusing to acknowledge the theatricality of it. There’s a muscle twitching in his cheek and he feels like he might have to do something really stupid tonight to get rid of the red-hot anger in his gut.

“Alright, then,” Jim says mildly, making Sebastian’s spit turn bitter. Jim leans down and kisses Molly on the cheek. “Later?” he asks her. It might be a trick of the acoustics that makes his voice carry so clearly to Sebastian, but Seb doubts it. Doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that Jim would leave to chance. Molly nods, turning even pinker.

The whole scene makes Seb want to vomit or hit them. “Hurry it up,” he growls.

Jim laughs. “Sorry, sorry,” he sing-songs, as he grabs his bag and drops down between the clarinets and the violins. He still looks delighted. Heads turn to follow Jim as he strolls over to Sebastian, his posture loose and insouciant.

Sebastian has never seen anything that made his chest burn more than Jim Moriarty, making his way down the aisle with a crooked little half-smile on his face like he’s goading Sebastian on.

_If Augustus wasn’t already blackmailing me for **one** murder, I think I’d commit another – _

Instead of heading for the exit, Jim paces all the way across the stage to the conductor’s platform, his footsteps loud in the sudden attentive quiet. Everything’s so dramatic with him; so staged and careful and controlled. Sebastian’s grip tightens on the conductor’s stand. Jim stops just in front of it. The stage lights are bright on his hair. He has to tilt his head back – way back – to look up into Sebastian’s eyes.

Sebastian feels his lip twitch. "My, my," Jim murmurs, in a way that should be cruel but isn't - not with his voice so soft – "Someone ought to tell your master not to kick his puppies." He reaches up, and Seb should flinch back, but he hesitates and the chance is lost. Jim’s cold hand places flat on Sebastian's jaw. "I meant what I said about wanting to keep you, dear,” he tells Sebastian, quite kindly, “If he leaves you like _this_ again I'm going to have to have a word, and nobody wants that."

It’s quiet enough that nobody else is able to hear but Sebastian’s stomach still drops out between his knees. His lips move. He’s not quite sure if that means he said _“Leave_ ” out loud or not.

Jim smiles and pats Sebastian’s cheek again. “Don’t let it happen,” he says, and leaves the orchestra like he never meant to stay to begin with.

♫♫♫♫

By the end of practice Sebastian is sweating uncomfortably, t-shirt sticking to the small of his back. He lets his arms fall as the last notes die away, whispering to themselves as echoes in the rafters, and sets his baton down on the conductor’s stand. After Shostakovich, the soft _clink_ of wood on metal is barely more than a breath. Sebastian rubs a hand over his eyes. He’s pushed them too hard today, but he has to. He _has_ to.

The orchestra’s still waiting for him to speak. Sherlock takes his violin away from his chin but doesn’t set it down, watching Sebastian with an air of extreme frustration. Molly looks exhausted and solemn, her face flushed with exertion and sweat damp on her forehead. Up in the back, the piano hunkers silently. John’s watching Sebastian with an expression that might be concern.

 _Well, that’s another thing I’m not fucking dealing with,_ Sebastian decides. “Right,” he says, finally, just to be saying something. “Right. That’s good.” He looks out at the orchestra. A few people look skeptical, although most are still in varying forms of shock. Sebastian can’t help a rueful smile. “Guess most of you didn’t expect to be running a musical marathon today,” he says. It earns him a laugh. “But it was worth it. Tighten up those staccato notes, and find a recording so you can listen to the tempo change in the development.” The orchestra waits impatiently.

Finally, Sebastian waves a hand, dismissing them. “Alright. Good work, people. Pack up and get outta here.”

There’s a moment of hesitation until Sherlock bends in his seat for his case and as if it’s a cue the rest of the orchestra starts packing up all at once. Sebastian doesn’t bother trying to speak over the noise. He turns and stares at the empty seats out in the audience, focusing somewhere in the middle distance. Augustus would have loved his performance today. Sebastian tries not to hate himself too much for that. He feels hollow and dull, so hateful that he aches.

Not for the first time, Sebastian wishes he believed in suicide.

He grabs his jacket and pulls it on as he leaves the stage, feeling in his pockets for a pack of smokes and a lighter. Outside it’s miserable, pouring rain, and Sebastian tugs his hood over his head. He pushes out the hall’s doors and lets them bang shut behind him.   He’ll come back in and lock up after a cigarette. Or five. It’s cold, and wet enough that Sebastian doesn’t move out from under the building’s narrow awning. He cups his hand around the end of his smoke to shield it from the wind and flicks his light. It’s sticky – Seb gets it on the third try but only manages to light his cigarette halfway. He gives it short quick pulls to encourage the ember, like staccato beats of breath.

When the cherry’s going strong Sebastian drops his hand and exhales a thin stream of smoke to the ash-grey sky. The door opens and shuts behind him.

“So I suppose it’s not my place,” John says, “But you look a bloody mess.”

Seb shoots him a look over his shoulder. John leans back against the door, arms folded. Behind him the rest of the musicians are filing out the main doors, talking animatedly in silence. Sebastian can’t make out their faces. They’re just indiscriminate shadows, like ghosts.

No matter how hard Sebastian searches his face, John doesn’t look patronizing or malicious; just concerned. Sebastian thinks that might be worse. “Nothing I can’t deal with,” he tells John, forcing his tone casual. He takes another drag of his cigarette, his fingers cold against his lips.

“Course not,” John agrees.

Sebastian looks at him suspiciously. John doesn’t move. He doesn’t look like he’s doubting Sebastian, but then again, Seb knows pity when he sees it. “I’ve got this,” he tells John finally, trying to make it sound like _get out of my face._ “Why don’t you just worry about playing the drums, and let _me_ worry about my own crap.” It comes out harsh, Seb’s voice rasping sharply on the words. He sounds like a snapping dog.

John’s hands fly up in a gesture of surrender. “Right. Yeah. Of course.” His eyebrows knit tight over his off-blue eyes, a soft knot of concern. He sounds like Sebastian’s just tried to bite his head off, and worse than that, like he’s going to _apologize_.

Sebastian groans inwardly. _Save me from lost puppies,_ he thinks, _especially the handsome ones._ “Didn’t mean it like that,” he adds, sighing. “Rough day.” He offers John the pack. “Smoke?”

John shakes his head. “Can’t,” he says, with a rueful shrug. “I sing on the weekends.” Sebastian blinks. John grins. “What – “ he says, “ – I don’t look like a rock star?” He holds out his hands and looks down at his worn-out, Tesco jeans. Sebastian has to laugh. “No, but – I can prove it,” John insists. “If you like Colin Campbell’s on Friday night.”

Suddenly it feels like cold water trickling down Sebastian’s spine, but when he rubs his neck, his hand comes away dry. “I was there last night,” he hears himself say. It makes his chest go a little cold, and he takes a quick drag to cover his expression. Above them the rain drumming on the awning gets louder as the clouds open up overhead, soaking the pavement black with water. Sebastian has to fight not to look around for someone listening in. _Augustus has no way of knowing what I do,_ he tells himself, not for the first time. The prickling hairs on the back of his neck refuse to settle.

“Just drinking?” John asks.

Sebastian looks up. John’s leant back against the glass doors, his thumbs tucked into his pockets. He has wide hips, a straight waist. Augustus would call him boxy. Even if Augustus ever accepted Sebastian’s stranger proclivities, he’d never accept John. He’d want something taller, with thick shoulders and a nipped in waist like a perfect, equilateral triangle. The streetlight across the pavement from them catches John’s wrinkles, washes out the soft blonde of his hair until it looks colorless.

He doesn’t look like he’s made for betrayals.

“I played,” Sebastian says recklessly.

John looks delighted – not the way Jim had, sadistic and predatory; just honestly. Openly. “Yeah?”

Sebastian nods. He kills his smoke, drops it, and grinds it into the wet pavement with his toe.

“Didn’t know you went in for that sort of thing,” John says, a little bit teasingly. Everyone knows what they play at Colin Campbell’s; it’s not exactly orchestra fare.

“Didn’t know you did either,” Sebastian shoots back. He makes no move towards the door. John’s still leaning on it with one shoulder, although his arms are crossed over his chest now. Like Jim, he has to tilt his head back to look at Sebastian. It makes the short hairs on the back of his neck curl against the back of his shirt. He’s got a strong jaw, and under his collar the edges of his collarbones are just visible.

“Well,” John says, with the kind of quiet, confident smile that makes Sebastian’s mouth go a little bit dry, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, isn’t there?”

♫♫♫♫

John says Friday like a promise, and heads for the parking lot. Sebastian watches him go. John’s cheap sneakers splash up mud behind him, spattering dark across the back of his jeans.

Seb isn’t planning on asking himself what he’s doing. He doesn’t want to know.

It’s cold enough outside that standing around isn’t pleasant and Sebastian hunches his shoulders, blowing out a quick breath before he digs in his pockets for the hall keys. A cold drop of water makes it through the awning and hits the top of Sebastian’s head, seeping through his hair. Sebastian shivers.

The keys jingle to each other as he pulls the door to the hall open. He scuffs his feet against the mat to get the worst of the mud off, and fixes the deadbolt at the bottom of the left-side door. The hall is still and cavernous with no one else around, and the sound of the deadbolt driving home seems unnaturally loud. Sebastian’s reflection watches him in the black glass of the door, shadows like bruises hiding his eyes and the corner of his mouth.

Sebastian tugs the handle to make sure the door is locked and heads across the hall to check the concession. The carpet muffles his footsteps. The lights are dimmed, nearly all off except for the stage and a few sunken lamps in the entrance. Sebastian doesn’t mind that – makes the place seem comfortably smaller, somehow. More his size.

He plants both palms on the concession counter and hops up, lying flat on his stomach. If he stretches he can just reach down to the safe’s handle on the other side of the bar, rather than unlocking the barrier and letting himself in. It rattles stiffly in his hand. Locked. Sebastian slides off the counter and back to his feet, rubbing his hand on his pants.

Rain drums on the roof, soft uneven beats like rice tossed onto a snare drum. Sebastian’s still cold, even in the hall – he hadn’t bothered to turn the heating on, and there isn’t much difference in or out except that it happens to be dry inside. He zips up his jacket as he heads for the stage door.

“Is this really the place?”

Sebastian freezes. The voice is muffled, coming through the ajar door to the stage, but it’s still recognizable. _What the hell is Sherlock doing –_

“Now, now… I thought you _liked_ a bit of risk.” Jim’s voice practically curls in the air, purring smooth with promise. Sebastian realizes his mouth is open, and shuts it. He licks his lips, raking his teeth over them to pull at the dead skin.

“I don’t take _risks,_ ” Sherlock insists petulantly, “I’m always sure of the outcomes before I – “

“Longer you talk,” Jim sing-songs, “Faster Sebastian comes back.”

Sebastian’s stomach does an odd little flip-flop between jumping into his throat and falling out completely. Jim’s tone hasn’t gotten any less provocative, and the shape of Seb’s name in his mouth – Christ, Sebastian’s not sure if he wants to hit the guy, fuck him, or have him arrested. The rumble of Jim’s voice on Sebastian’s name would get anyone convicted for disturbing the peace. Seb bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.

_I should fire him. I should turn him in, fuck, only…_

“You first, I assume?” Sherlock drawls, sounding bored. It snaps Sebastian out of his head, and he reaches for the door; planning to push it open and kick them out. Whatever they’re doing, they can do it somewhere else. Sebastian isn’t even going to _guess_ what those two consider a good time, but he’s willing to bet he doesn’t want to clean up afterwards.

The doors of the hall are quiet. Their hinges are smooth. So, the sound of Sherlock pulling Jim’s zipper down is a lot louder than the sound of Sebastian opening the door.

And just like that whatever Sebastian was going to say dies in his throat.

It’s like a lightning strike. Everything is perfectly illuminated. For a split second, Sebastian is acutely aware of the position of his body, the scene he’s walked in on, like it’s being seared directly onto his brain. For the first time in his life, he understands the term _floored._ He feels like he’s been flattened.

Jim Moriarty looks up, meets Sebastian’s eyes, and smiles as Sherlock licks a stripe up his cock.

Sebastian can’t hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears. And yeah – he knows he should be running. The appropriate thing to do now is turn and head for the hills, double-time, and _fuck_ locking up. He should at least be yelling. Asking what the fuck they think they’re doing.

He definitely should not be watching Sherlock’s long, pale fingers wrap around the base of Jim’s cock, but it’s the last thing he sees before Sherlock shifts on his knees and the black mess of his curls hides what he’s doing from view. Jim cards one hand down through Sherlock’s hair. He hasn’t looked away from Sebastian.

Jim’s eyes are black, all pupil, and heavy lidded with lust. His smile is lazy, self-satisfied, like a cat sunning itself after a kill. Sebastian’s mouth works - trying to make sound come out - and Jim just shuts his eyes, dark lashes stark against his pale skin. He licks his lips, slow and deliberate; sucking the bottom one in over his teeth.

Seb can’t tear his eyes away. If there wasn’t another man literally in the process of sucking Jim off, Sebastian might offer to do it himself. A chill runs down his spine. _This is fucked up – this is beyond fucked up –_

Sebastian feels like he’s got magnets under his skin, like Jim is a loadstone, like the visible pulse in Jim’s throat is a fish-hook through his brain. Somehow, he manages to stumble a step backwards in almost perfect silence. There’s a slick, sucking sound as Sherlock bobs his head, dark curls brushing against the pale skin of Jim’s stomach. Jim moans, low and helpless, playing the sound up for the benefit of his audience.

Frustration and lust are at war in Sebastian’s brain, and frustration is quickly coming out on top. He’s going to kill Jim. He’s going to kick him out of the orchestra, throw him into a gutter – grind Jim’s pretty pianist fingers under his boots until the bones are flat. Sebastian takes another step backwards, towards the door.

Jim’s eyes flick open again. Sebastian tastes bile in his mouth. He wants to spit. He wants to scream. But – Christ, he _can’t._ Jim’s got both hands in Sherlock’s hair, now, not pulling, but still twisted tight. His breath is coming faster. His skin is flushed.

 _Stay,_ he mouths.

Sebastian bites his tongue so he doesn’t scream.

Jim lets his eyes trail down Sebastian, slow and almost insultingly intimate. Then he drops his head back, baring his throat, and gasps – a weak little sound, like he’s having the air clawed out of his lungs. Sherlock’s got one hand on Jim’s cock and the other gripping at his thigh. Sebastian can see his fingers digging into the skin, so hard Jim might have bruises tomorrow. Jim doesn’t seem to care. His sin-pink tongue flicks out, wetting his lips, and Sebastian can see the involuntary jerk of his hips as he starts to thrust himself forward, into Sherlock’s mouth.

_No – Christ, that’s **enough –**_

_Stay_ or no _stay_ , Sebastian isn’t watching this. Fuck locking up. He shoves himself backwards out of the door and stands in the dim hall, listening to Jim pant Sherlock’s name.

He is _so_ fucked.

♫♫♫♫

John’s waiting outside Colin Campbell’s when Sebastian shows up at nine-thirty on Friday night. He’s wearing a black shirt with the first two buttons undone and a faux leather jacket over blue jeans, and looks good without trying too hard. Sebastian appreciates it. There’re a few other people standing around in the cold outside, smoking in tight circles huddled together against the weather. The bar windows are plastered with posters, advertising some show in white-and-black on printer paper.

“Waiting long?” Sebastian asks. The rain from earlier in the week’s cleared off, but it’s still thickly overcast and cold enough that Sebastian can see his breath on the air. The puddles on the pavement are still hanging around from Wednesday, reflecting the streetlights where they can’t reflect stars.

John shakes his head. “Nope – they have me on at ten, I think. Radio’s playing warm-up.”

Sebastian grimaces at the thought. “Top forty?”

“The worst of,” John replies with a grin. He nods in the direction of Sebastian’s violin case. “Is that what you meant by playing, then?”

Sebastian hefts it, a bit awkwardly. “Wasn’t sure what sort of night it was,” he says honestly, “Thought it might be worth it.”

“Right you are,” John replies. Not for the first time, Sebastian likes the way he doesn’t have to say anything – they stand there a moment in comfortable silence, until Sebastian notices that they’re smiling at each other a bit too happily and hastily clears his throat.

“Buy you a pint, then?” He steps forward to get the door handle and pulls it open for them both, letting out a pool of smoky light and canned, over-loud music. John ducks inside under his arm, tugging his jacket off as he goes.

The hardwood is slick just inside the door, spattered with muddy water. John nods to the bouncer in a way that makes Sebastian thinks they know each other and heads towards the bar with Sebastian tight on his heels. The air’s warmer inside, just a little bit humid. The stage is lit and empty, the mike stands looking lonely in the floodlights. Sebastian strips his jacket, looking around for a table. It’s too early for much of a crowd, yet, but they still have to queue for their pint behind a girl in a spiked jean vest and her shaven-headed friends.

“So what kind of singing do you do?” Sebastian asks John as they wait, pitching his voice to carry over the music.

John shrugs one shoulder with a self-depreciating smile. “Bit of this – bit of that – rock, mainly. Some country.” When Sebastian makes a face, he huffs out a laugh. “Don’t be a snob.”

“Better a snob than a country singer,” Sebastian shoots back. John rolls his eyes with a long-suffering sigh, and Sebastian can’t help a laugh. “Alright, alright. So I’m thinking Johnny Cash, not Charlie Daniels?”

John nods. “Flatter me with a bit of taste.” They move ahead a few steps in line, and John adds, “A bit of Celt stuff too, in a place like this.”

“Celt stuff,” Sebastian says dubiously. The bartender gets the girls ahead of them highballs, and Seb peels off a few pounds from a roll in his pocket for a pitcher. John reaches over his shoulder to get the glasses, leaning in close enough that Sebastian can smell the neat, smoky smell of his cologne. It makes the hairs on the back of Sebastian’s neck stand up. The pitcher is cool in his hand, weeping condensation in the heat of the bar.

“Ever heard of the Dropkick Murphys?” John asks with a grin, leading Seb to a booth near the bar. “Pogues?”

Seb groans loudly enough for John to hear him over the music. “No, you’re kidding me,” he moans, sliding in to the booth and setting his violin case on the far end of the table. He reaches over and snags the glasses from John, pouring for them both. The beer’s light, the golden-amber colour of honey. “This isn’t going to end in me playing _Boys from the County Hell_ with you, is it?”

John licks foam from his lips, and tilts his head to the side like a friendly dog. “You might have to buy me another pint for that,” he says.

Sebastian laughs. Shit, he can’t remember the last time he laughed like this. John takes another sip and his pint-glass clinks as he sets it down. The radio plays in the background, almost swallowed under the noise of the arriving crowd.

John’s looking out over the crowd. The lights make his blue eyes look dark, shading them down into brown. He’s got a funny little wrinkle around the corner of his mouth from smiling. He looks solid and dependable and strong – like if you came to him with a problem, it’d get solved. If you came to him with a body, Sebastian thinks John Watson might help you bury it.

Seb takes a deep breath. “I’m bi,” he says, bluntly, apropos nothing.

John looks back to him with a bewildered series of blinks. “Sorry – What?”

“I’m bi – I mean, I like men. Guys. In b –“

“I know what bi means,” John interrupts with a laugh. He leans back in his seat and slings an arm over the back of the booth, looking at Sebastian. He’s still got his friendly smile on his face. He doesn’t look like he’s running. Okay. Well, that’s one step up from the last time Sebastian did this.

“What brought that up?” John asks. Sebastian gulps down a mouthful of his pint before he lets himself answer, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Carbonation burns his throat, makes his eyes water. The bar is filling up, now – someone’s up on stage checking the sound. Across the table John’s fingers drum on the booth’s plastic padding. A yellow stage light hits his face, striking sideways like highway lines.

Sebastian suddenly wishes he could take back the last five minutes. John’s not his sort. If he was looking for a bloke to fuck he’d find a lollipop-and-glitter twink to ream into the mattress, someone down for anything and infinitely disposable. _Solid_ isn’t his style. _Dependable_ never did it for him.

Seb puts his glass back down on the table. He must be going crazy. “Nothing,” he tells John, shaking his head. He glances up at John with an easy grin that feels stiff and stale. “Just if you’re the homophobic type. I thought we might as well get it out of our way early.” He shrugs his shoulders in a nonchalant, _don’t care what you think_ sort of way.

For a minute Sebastian thinks that it’s going to play, but John won’t let it. “Sebastian,” John says, chidingly. He rests his cheekbone on his knuckle, propping his head tilted sideways. He looks at Sebastian like he’s really _looking;_ really paying attention. Not just waiting for his turn to talk.

“Right,” Sebastian replies. He reaches forward for the pitcher, refills his glass, and drains it. “Are you?” he asks harshly, laying the rest of his hand out on the table. Might as well.

“Bi?” John asks, innocently, “Or interested in you?”

Sebastian feels a startled grin spread over his face. Across the booth, John smiles wickedly back at him. “Both,” Sebastian decides, “Definitely both.”

♫♫♫♫

They’re almost through the second pitcher by the time John’s curtain call comes up. Sebastian’s not buzzed yet, but there’s a pleasant warm weight in his stomach. John keeps smiling this silly, too-wide smile that makes him look like a kid on Christmas, and Sebastian’s caught him staring a couple times – distinctly below Sebastian’s neck.

“Come up and do the first one with me,” John insists as he stands. Sebastian shakes his head and jerks his chin in the direction of the stage.

“I can see just fine from here.”

John huffs, a short little exhale of breath through his smile that Seb’s beginning to learn means equal parts good humor and reproach. “I can’t see _you_ though,” he says. “Besides – I’ve never heard you play.”

Sebastian drains the last of the second pitcher into his glass. He’s definitely going to regret this. “What did you have in mind?” he asks.

John’s smile shouldn’t physically be able to get wider, but it does. “You’ll play?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” Sebastian says, with a fierce scowl to make John take him seriously. It doesn’t work.

“Something easy,” John decides, “And fun.”

“ – With a good fiddle part – ”

John nods agreement. “And vocals that no one will notice if I fuck up. How about _Shipping Up to Boston?_ ”

Sebastian stands with a grin. He nods towards the crowd. “Now you’re just pandering,” he teases, leaning back over for his case.

“What can I say,” John shoots back, “I’m a sell-out." He claps Sebastian on the shoulder and leads him up to the stage. The crowd cheers as they come out into the lights. There’s a fuck of a lot more people in the bar than it’d looked like in the booth. Sebastian doesn’t mind that. It’s Friday night, the beer is warm in his gut, and John’s looking at him with a _what-have-you-got_ smile.

When he opens up the Strad John whistles. “Nice axe. You weren’t joking, were you? Bet the rosin dust would just _kill_ Sherlock.”

Sebastian flashes a grin at John as he picks her up. “Why do you think I stopped cleaning it?” He rests the Strad on his chin and fingers a few notes without the bow, feeling the strings burn against his fingertips. He’s still rubbed raw from Augustus’ phone call. “I hate violinists,” he says when he’s satisfied, and bends for his bow. It’s hot in the stage lights again, and the air is humid and chokingly close. Sweat is already beading uncomfortably on the back of Sebastian’s neck. Sebastian tugs his shirt off without thinking, dropping it onto his case. He ignores the wolf-whistles with the ease of long practice, bounces on the balls of his feet to psych himself up, and turns to face John. “Whenever you’re – “

John looks like someone dropped a ten-ton weight on his head. He’s staring at Sebastian’s shirtless chest like he’s isn’t quite sure whether it’s real.

“Ready,” Sebastian finishes, feeling a wicked grin curve his lips.

John blinks those puppy-dog eyes at Sebastian. “Uh – Right,” he manages. His throat bobs as he swallows. Sebastian nearly _crows_ with triumph. He hopes John enjoys this. If he still remembers the words by the end of the song, Sebastian isn’t half the man he thinks he is.

He sets his bow to his violin and steps forward. The crowd knows him. They welcome him with raised glasses and a roar that rattles the windows. Sebastian plays two deep notes right to the microphone, glaringly loud. Bass beats. Then the squealing high note, ripped across the top of the strings and falling off with a shriek like the end of the world.

Colin Campbell’s is an Irish bar, and for most of the crowd, that’s enough. A second cheer goes up, louder this time. The bar’s resident drummer, a big woman with slicked-black blue hair and tattoos across her collar bones, takes the stairs two at the time to her drum set. Sebastian repeats the intro to give her time to pull out a pair of sticks and put her foot on the bass pedal, then he can’t wait any longer and he falls into the melody like throwing himself off a cliff. He bites the notes off hard with his bow, sawing into the strings like he’s going to cut through, sharp and just a bit too fast. He’s showing off. Cheap, but John’s on stage behind him. If there was ever a time to be theatrical –

Sebastian’s whole body rocks with the bass drum, and he swings his hips into a low figure eight that dips him nearly down to the ground. He spins as he comes up, light on his toes even though it’s stomping music. He can’t help himself – he shakes. He grinds his hips against nothing. He turns and bares his teeth and mugs shamelessly at John.

If he expects John to be paralyzed and drooling, he’s badly underestimated the man. John throws his head back and laughs. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, baring tanned forearms and a scar on the back of his wrist. He looks like he’d be good in a fight.

 _My turn,_ he mouths, and raises his eyebrows. He lifts the mike, stepping forward. He’s got the cord wrapped around his other fist, gathering it up out of the way.

Sebastian runs his tongue over his top lip and winks, falling back to make room for John in center stage. He sees John laugh; can’t hear it over the music vibrating down his spine. His fingers fly on the strings – had they ever hurt? Seb turns back to the crowd. The last series of notes before the chorus tumbles down, skipping stones, each one quieter so John can be heard.

For the space of a beat, as Sebastian stomps to the bass drum, he considers that John might be terrible – might have chosen a song that’s too rough, too hard, too young for them.

He should know better.

“ _I’m a sailor peg –“_ John sings, “ _And I lost my leg –_ “

He’ll never make it as a classical singer. He’s got a too-rough tenor that slips down on the low notes into a baritone growl, just a bit dark and warning. But for this – for the dark bar, for Sebastian’s fiddle playing quick hard challenge, for the taste of beer on Sebastian’s tongue – he’s perfect.

The stage lights shine gold on his hair, turning the fine strands on the top of his head white like a halo. He doesn’t dance, but one of his toes taps and he pulls the microphone cord tight in his hands like garrotte wire when he leans back to call out each line, and it’s enough. It’s flawless.

Sebastian lets him have the verse center-stage in peace, then steps in close on the bridge. He sets his back to John’s side, legs wide so he can play a lick to the crowd and grind himself against John’s hips. He throws his head back over John’s shoulder, rolls his hips with a wicked twist, slides down to his knees on the floor – feeling wild and reckless and drunk on something that isn’t the beer.

John’s fingers card into his hair. “ _I’m shipping off to Boston – “_ and Sebastian stumbles to his feet, finds a microphone. He sings back-up vocals blindly into it, rough and a little off-key. He catches John grinning out of the corner of his eye, winks again, and looks out into the dark.

Then, for the first time in twenty-odd years, Sebastian misses his fingering. He drops a note.

There’s a single light in the crowd, by the door. A single man, standing under it, his hands shoved in his coat pockets. The light gleams off his black hair as he tilts his head back to stare at Sebastian with hollow, dark eyes.

Like he’s measuring Sebastian for a noose.

♫♫♫♫

<You still here? JW. 23:21 2014/10/25>

<I’m by the bar. Next pitcher’s on me. JW. 23:31 2014/10/25>

<Alright, well – I’m headed home. Text me back, would you? Or I’ll just assume I did something wrong, and we can part friends. That’s fine too, you know. JW. 01:31 2014/10/26>

<Nothing like that. I had to leave in a hurry. 01:33 2014/10/26>

<Oh so THAT gets you to reply, does it? JW. 01:35 2014/10/26>

<I’ll make it up to you. 01:37 2014/10/26>

<Right. Well, I’m a hard man to satisfy. How about coffee? JW. 01:40 2014/10/26>

<I was thinking breakfast. Where are you? 01:45 2014/10/26>

<You think so, do you? Make it through a whole date with me next time and I’ll think about it. ;) But that’s not making it up to me. Think grovelling. See you at practice tomorrow. JW 01:55 2014/10/26>

♫♫♫♫

<What the hell was that? 22:41 2014/10/25>

<Where the fuck are you. 23:45 2014/10/25>

<I know you’re here, Jim, where the fuck are you. 23:52 2014/10/25>

<We need to talk about this. 23:53 2014/10/25>

<Goddamn it, Jim, pick up your fucking phone, I’m serious. 00:10 2014/10/26>

<If you tell anyone what you saw I’ll kill you, I swear to god I will. 00:25 2014/10/26>

♫♫♫♫

Sebastian stands outside the orchestra hall the next morning, finishing his cigarette, and stares blankly at the glass double-doors. He’s reasonably sure they’re mocking him. He should go inside – he’s probably late. Sebastian scowls to himself and takes another drag, too long so the smoke burns his throat.

He’s dawdling and he knows it.

With a sigh, Seb drops his butt and toes it into wet mush on the pavement. He heads for the door, dragging his feet. The weather’s hesitating too, wavering on the edge of raining. Inside the hall it’s warm – someone’s turned the heat on – and absolutely, flawlessly silent.

Sebastian frowns and checks his watch. It’s nine-oh-five, which makes him late enough that everyone should be in their seats by now and making the usual din. Alarm bells go off in Sebastian’s head, one after another. The lights are on, so he’s not alone. He goes silent on instinct, supressing his breathing and rising up on the balls of his feet to glide over the floor towards the hall like a ghost.

Someone coughs. Sebastian tries not to think of Jim. The clarinet player who’d eaten his instrument. Or Jim’s quick pianist fingers wrapped around the hilt of a knife, his victim’s screams trapped by the domed ceiling of the stage –

Sebastian turns the handle and pushes the door open, his heart pounding tight against the back of his breastbone.

A man is standing at the conductor’s stand with his back to Sebastian. He’s tall, with blonde hair and a narrow waist. Sebastian’s chin rises. He can feel his lungs swell, sucking in air, desperate for oxygen to feed the fight-or-flight response of his brain. The man at the conductor’s stand is in an elegantly cut suit that’s been very obviously tailored, and has a top-of-the-line cell phone in his hand.

Seb’d recognize him anywhere: back turned, hat on, even across a crowded room.

Somehow Sebastian manages to start walking down the aisle. The stairs to the stage loom up in front of him suddenly, almost too fast. He feels light. Like if he had to he could move fast enough to blur. His hands are loose and empty at his sides, relaxed and ready. Sebastian recognizes the symptoms of an adrenaline dump almost from a distance; his thoughts cool and rational, echoing distantly in the back of his head.

He walks up the stairs up to the stage and very neatly sets his bag down against the railing. The man on the conductor’s stand turns to face him.

Sebastian could be looking in a mirror, give or take a few minor differences; their clothes, for one. Their hair. Severin’s is an inch or two shorter, slicked severely back in a way that probably suits him. Sebastian’s posture is lazy; Severin’s ramrod straight. Just looking at him makes Sebastian feel untidy, although he takes vindictive pride in the fact that Severin doesn’t have the muscle mass he has. It makes Severin look like the shorter one, although they’re within a hair’s breadth of height.

 _Get out,_ Sebastian thinks, but even he’s not suicidal enough to say that. “Severin,” he acknowledges.

“Seb,” Severin replies, with a tense smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Father sent me along. He had a few things to say to the orchestra…” Severin half-turns, looking at the empty seats. “I wanted to see them, anyways. I expect to be impressed.” It’s impossible to tell whether or not he’s being sarcastic. Impossible to tell a lot of things about Severin. “Ah – they’re not here yet because Father sent an email out from your account delaying the practice for half an hour. He wanted me to have a chance to speak with you. I hope you don’t mind.” His voice sounds stilted. It always does. Like he’s practicing the words before he says them.

Sebastian grits his teeth. “I suppose it’s useless to ask how Augustus got the password to my email,” he says, barely managing to stop himself snarling.

“You act like he tells me things.”

“Doesn’t he?” Sebastian snaps. “See, I thought you and him _talked –_ “ He catches a wince, flickering over Severin’s face. Ugly, bitter satisfaction fills Sebastian’s heart. Severin looks away, unable to meet his eyes. It’s a cheap shot, and they both know it.

Sebastian doesn’t bother pressing a hand to the scars on his spine. He doesn’t need to touch them to remember how much Severin and Augustus _talk._

“We do talk,” Severin admits. “But he’s hardly a monster. He’s just doing what’s best for – “

“He’s just doing what’s best for his bloody fucking orchestras,” Sebastian replies. “And the only reason you don’t think he’s a monster, Severin, is because you do what he wants.” It’s an old argument, and tastes stale. Sebastian doesn’t have the strength to have it again, not now. He rubs a hand over his face. “What _does_ Augustus want this time, anyways?”

“Me to check up on you, more or less.” It might even sound apologetic, if it was anyone but Severin. He undoes the button of his suit with deft fingers and tucks his hand into his pants pocket, brushing his jacket open. “Listen to the orchestra – see how you’re doing – ”

“You mean discipline me if I’ve gotten _out of line._ ”

Severin tilts his head. He’s compartmentalizing. Sebastian knows what it looks like on him. Severin could never bring himself to face things head on; he had to be clinical. Detached. Even when he beat Sebastian bloody on their father’s orders, he was always calmly removed from the situation.

“If it’s necessary,” Severin admits, in his emotionless robot voice.

“Well _that_ certainly puts me in the mood to show you my orchestra,” Sebastian snarks at him. He gestures insultingly to the front row. “No, but if _Augustus_ wants you to, be my guest.”

Severin loses the perfect robot exterior. His thumb rubs nervously against his belt loop. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” he says, tight with frustration. Probably with Sebastian. Severin wouldn’t dare get frustrated with Augustus; it wouldn’t be his place.

Sebastian’s lip twists in a sneer. “Yeah,” he says, turning his back on Severin, “It does.”

Severin sighs, but he doesn’t insist again. Sebastian looks down at his watch. It’s ten after, now. They’ve ten minutes alone before Sebastian start to hope for an interruption. Severin holds up his wrist with a snap to pull back his sleeve. Sebastian fights the urge to kick at the stage, scuff his black soles along and leave marks. Just having Severin in the room makes the skin on his back prickle and crawl. He feels strung-tight, ready to flinch at the slightest hint of movement towards him.

“I’ve seen mother,” Severin says abruptly.

Sebastian gives him a long, level look in silence. He really doesn’t need to say anything. It isn’t a comfortable silence. Severin stares back, and after a moment, his jaw firms but he doesn’t look away.

“That thing isn’t my mother,” Sebastian says, finally, when it becomes clear that one of them has to say something. The words are flat and heavy between them, like bricks. “It’s a corpse.”

“Augustus says – “

“I don’t give a _FUCK_ what Augustus says!” Sebastian stomps across the stage. He knows he’s running from the conversation, but he can’t help it. He can’t stay. He feels sick, a deep heart-wrenching nausea like a scream stuck inside him and he can’t force it out. He throws himself into the concert-master’s chair, making it shriek backwards against the floor.

Severin looks like he’s got something sour in his mouth, and maybe he does. Sebastian shifts, trying to find the best place on the chair. At least he showered this morning. He can’t say much about the day, but at least he showered.

Sebastian checks his watch again. Nine thirteen. Sherlock’s chair is uncomfortable, too high off the ground; when he slouches, Sebastian feels like he’s back in grade school. Severin rocks himself, rolling his weight from his toes to his heels as he stands awkwardly in the center of the stage. Sebastian feels nothing but a dull, aching anger, almost like exhaustion.

Nine fifteen. Sebastian looks away, into the empty seats of the audience. He wonders what it’ll look like full, with the lights down. The orchestra all suited up and nervous in the wings, glancing at him for reassurance every so often even when they pretend not to need it. He wonders if Augustus will make him wear some terrible and uncomfortable suit, although he probably knows the answer to that.

It’s cold onstage without lights or bodies to warm it, but that won’t last long. Sebastian sighs, leans forward in Sherlock’s chair, and strips his jacket off. He’s probably leaving the seat wet, but fuck it – Sherlock can deal. Sebastian ignores the constant weight of Severin’s eyes on the back of his neck. It’s not worth dealing with. He rubs his hand over his mouth and drops it into his lap.

Someone’s going to have to say something eventually. Sebastian looks up and sees Severin already watching, a cautious look in his eye. Sebastian wonders bitterly why. It’s not Severin who’s going to end up taking the hits, after all.

He opens his mouth to say so, and the door to the hall opens.

Sebastian doesn’t know how he forgot Jim; it seems impossible, now that Jim’s standing there in the door like death himself in skin-tight jeans.

It takes Jim about a sixth of a second to sum up what’s happening, and then a slow, venomous smile slides over his face. “Sorry,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t want to wake himself from an excellent dream, “Am I interrupting…?”

“Not at all,” Severin replies, with the kind of politeness that has to be drilled into a child. “You are…?”

“James Moriarty,” Jim replies, mimicking Severin’s tone. He wanders through the empty rows towards them. Sebastian wonders if Severin notices that Jim’s mocking him; but then again, Seb wouldn’t have caught it if he didn’t know Jim.

“James,” Severin says, with a slanted nod. “Yes, the pianist – I’ve heard wonderful things.”

“I’m only disappointed Augustus didn’t come to my audition in person,” Jim replies smoothly, all polite charm. Sebastian eyes him with suspicion. Jim tilts his head to the side, watching Severin with heavy lidded, pitch-black eyes. “And you are…?”

“Severin Moran,” Severin says. He holds out a hand as Jim comes onto the stage, and they shake, polite as two vipers slithering over each other. Jim still hasn’t so much as glanced at Sebastian. He looks like he’s holding back a laugh.

“This really is delightful,” Jim purrs. “Are you going to be watching practice today?”

To Sebastian’s surprise, instead of answering immediately, Severin looks over Jim’s shoulder. He meets Sebastian’s eyes and lifts an eyebrow – passing the question off to him.

Jim turns, slow and deliberate. He takes in Sebastian, sitting in the concertmaster’s chair, and his smile slides into a grin. “Thinking of taking Sherlock’s place, were you?” Sebastian glares at him, unimpressed, but Jim only continues. “Judging from what I saw last night, you’re certainly capable – “

“Last night?” Severin interrupts sharply.

Sebastian’s heart jerks several inches towards his rib cage. His eyes widen. He tries to catch Jim’s eye – but Jim is already spinning on his heel, tilting his head curiously at Severin.

“Last night,” Jim repeats. “Sebastian was playing fiddle at Colin Campbell’s.”

The silence goes glacial. Absolutely frozen. Severin’s eyes narrow into slim, dangerous slits, watching Jim the same way he’d watch a cockroach skittering across his floor. “You must have been mistaken,” he tells Jim coolly. “Sebastian wouldn’t do that.”

Jim must catch his implied threat, because for a moment there’s an electric flicker on the air between them. Severin’s eyes widen, feeling the seeping edge of whatever monster Jim is underneath his skin starting to fill the room.

Then it’s gone, just a whisper on the air, like it was never there at all.

“Yes,” Jim says. He’s got a pensive look on his face, like he’s done something he’s not sure if he regrets yet. “I think I must have been.”

♫♫♫♫

John stops dead in the doorway and Molly Hooper runs straight into him from behind, nearly knocking him off his feet. There’s a mad fumble as both of them try to grab Molly’s violin case, and Molly tries not to drop the papers she’s got clutched in her other hand. Severin looks distinctly unimpressed.

By the time John straightens up, he’s got his expression back under control. He hands Molly back her case, and walks stiff-legged down the aisle towards them. Jim plays the opening of Beethoven’s fifth, quiet and mocking, from the back of the orchestra’s seating. Sebastian slouches further down in the concert-master’s chair, wishing he could throw them all out.

He can hear John’s footsteps go loud as he steps up onto the stage. Severin’s watching John curiously, his head tilted to one side, taking his measure. John looks to Sebastian, but Seb can’t bring himself to meet John’s eyes. Molly trips up the stairs, casts her instrument down in the second violins, and flees over behind Jim’s piano bench.

John must be tired of waiting for an introduction, because nods at Severin and extends a hand. “John Watson, hello,” he says, friendly.

Severin takes his hand. “Severin Moran.” Severin shakes neatly, releasing John’s hand the moment it becomes polite to do so. Sebastian is forcefully put in mind of a Siamese cat shaking paws with a bulldog. Severin’s wristwatch glitters in the lights of the hall as he shakes, catching the light in a way that John’s scars don’t. Sebastian licks his lips and looks down. The hard plastic of the concert-master’s chair is uncomfortably rigid and cold.

Jim is craning curiously out from behind the piano, even though Sebastian wishes he would start playing again. _Loudly._ If there’s a hell, Sebastian is in it.

The door of the hall bangs open near the stage, and Sherlock sweeps in. Sebastian’s almost glad to see him. For one thing, Sherlock’s entirely unfazed by the situation. He barely spares Severin a glance before he sniffs and crashes to a halt in front of Sebastian.

“Up.”

Sebastian can’t help smiling. At least something hasn’t changed. He shoves himself to his feet with an insouciant nod that makes Sherlock’s teeth grind.

Severin, to Sebastian’s surprise, laughs. “You haven’t changed,” he tells Sebastian. Sebastian shrugs one shoulder, and takes the conductor’s stand. He doesn’t have anything to say to that; not anything that could possibly mean much to Rin. John, up by the percussion with one hand in his pocket, frowns. His bottom lick is sucked in between his teeth and he’s worrying it as he thinks. Sebastian gives him a quick shake of the head. _I’m fine._

John shrugs. _You’re the expert._

An oboe comes in, followed by two of the flutes and a lumbering cellist. Sebastian looks very purposefully down at his music so he doesn’t have to watch their reaction to Severin, and grinds his teeth into powder.

“If you won’t fuck off, will you at least sit _down?_ ” Sebastian spits at Severin out of the corner of his mouth.

“Whatever you like,” Severin murmurs back, polite and smooth and soulless. He turns. The heels of his Italian shoes click neatly as he shows himself down into the audience. The orchestra is whispering, trying to guess what’s going on and falling miles short of the mark. Sebastian’s stomach burns, a fierce hateful heat that eats out the bottom of his heart.

Somewhere, Augustus is laughing at them.

♫♫♫♫

Shostakovich again. Always. Until Sebastian hears it in his sleep, with the Dropkick Murphys playing somewhere far in the background where his heart is shoved back against a wall. Shostakovich again, until Sebastian can’t hear his screaming through it. He takes a breath and holds it. In the back of the orchestra John and Jim sit on opposite sides like pillars, black and golden, solid and strange. Sebastian raises his head, looks at them: John braced back in his chair, sticks resting on the drums; Jim curved forward, fingers already waiting over the white bone keys.

“From the top of the third movement,” Sebastian murmurs. He’s aware of Severin behind him in the third row of the audience, even though he tries to tell himself he’s not. Severin is a tightness in Sebastian’s shoulders; a weight on his fingers as they curl around his baton. He raises his arms, and nods to Sherlock.

Sherlock, for all his distain, is icy-cool perfection. Professional. His fingers white against the deep gleam of his Strad, poised and waiting for Sebastian. Severin must be impressed with him. Sebastian’s just grateful that on his upswing Sherlock can pretend emotion. He sets his bow to the strings with one last glance at Sebastian, shuts his eyes, and begins to play.

For a moment the first violin hangs high above the orchestra, high and utterly alone in the silence. When the rest of the violins swell up underneath him, Sherlock lets himself fall. The melody is sweet, soft and delicate, and somehow the rest of the strings don’t manage to take away how lonely it sounds. Sebastian beckons them – ( _slowly, softly_ ) – and the second violins play soft aching complement to Sherlock. It’s the sound of good intentions gone wrong, of lost things, of flinches that no one manages to see.

Sebastian tightens his grip on the baton. His shoulder-blades itch where Severin must be watching. He brings the strings together on a clear, pure note, and lets them pull the melody down to a soft, bitter-sweet murmur. It winds slow around the stage, mournful and subdued. Sebastian wonders if Severin came on purpose today; if he’s reading things into Sebastian’s performance. Sebastian wants to throw himself from the stage and lock the doors of the hall behind him – shut Jim, Rin, and John away where he doesn’t have to think of them anymore. He can’t find the stillness he needs to be able to listen to what he’s doing; he can’t hear the music even as he pulls the strings upwards through a series of full, yearning notes. In the front row Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted.

All Sebastian is aware of is the weight of Severin’s breathing on the back of his neck.

He can’t hear Jim or John individually. The piano and percussion are lost in the sound as the rest of the orchestra joins the strings, one by one like the song is a stream growing as it trickles downhill. Sherlock’s violin is practically weeping, now. Soft, long notes that waver on the ends of his fingertips like they’re scared of falling. The orchestra rumbles slowly deeper and lower into anger beneath him; deep, thrumming sounds like distant drums. The first violins cry desperately. It’s louder now, stronger. The electric leap of a spark jumps between the musicians and Sebastian feels the moment when he should lose himself in it. When he should abandon himself into the sound, somewhere between the shriek of the strings into crescendo and the muffled rumble of the drums, but he can’t. He just can’t.

He can’t touch the sound, he can’t feel it. Sebastian is trapped. Where there should be music there’s Severin, and Augustus, their eyes on his neck and their threats wrapped around his wrists like cords –

Sebastian takes a shuddering breath like a gasp. He’s drowning. He can’t even hear Shostakovich for the dissonance that’s screaming in his ears. He can’t feel what’s right, what he needs. He doesn’t know what to do.

Sebastian’s knees lock. His chin raises. Every breath he takes is like needles through his lungs, but he stands ramrod straight like if he bends at all he’ll break entirely. He conducts with text-book precision; after all, it is what he was trained to do. And if he can’t hear the song for the screaming in his head, well, nobody will notice but him.

♫♫♫♫

“I’m quite impressed,” Severin says, gesturing Sebastian into a cab. He’d insisted. Sebastian stumbles blindly in front of him, barely managing to remember to duck so he doesn’t smash his head open on the cab’s roof.

“I don’t give a damn about impressing you,” he snaps at Severin by instinct, and tries to wrestle his pounding heart back from where it’s pressing against the bones of his ribs. There’s a loud bang as the door of the cab slams shut. Severin gives Sebastian’s address without asking before he settles into his seat. He doesn’t rise to the bait; just takes out his phone and starts typing.

It’s bright outside; too bright. Somehow, Sebastian feels like it should be night. At least for dramatic effect.

“Your performance was more than acceptable,” Severin continues. “Augustus will be – “

A dull flare of anger spikes in Sebastian’s chest. “I don’t give a fuck what Augustus thinks _either_.”

“Don’t you?” Severin looks at him with what Sebastian supposes must be pity. “The pianist said you were playing fiddle again, Seb.” His fingers pause on his cell-phone keys. Seb spares him a glance and sees a closed-off expression already settling over Severin’s features. It’s cool and polite, and doesn’t have an inch of mercy to spare.

“You going to tell him?” Sebastian sneers, although he already knows the answer. Outside the sun is piercingly bright. The clouds have burned off, taking all the forgiving shadows with them.

“Of course I am.”

Sebastian wants to have the energy to hate Severin, or himself. He wants to be able to avoid this, but there’s an awful sickening lethargy to the despair that’s heavy in his bones.

_I couldn’t even hear the music._

“You bring this on yourself,” Severin says.

“Yeah,” Seb replies, “I know.”

♫♫♫♫

When they reach Sebastian’s apartment Severin stays outside for three long minutes, on the phone with Augustus. When the door shuts neatly behind him, Sebastian doesn’t bother getting up. He knows what happens next.

“Father has decided how to deal with you,” Severin says.

Sebastian shuts his eyes. He slides off the couch and onto the floor, feeling the bones of his knees grind against the hard wood. _Maybe one of these days he’ll kill me,_ Sebastian thinks, with a dull sort of hope.

His pulse barely spikes when Severin breaks his nose.


	5. Chapter 5

Severin pulls the leather gloves off his hands and tucks them neatly into the briefcase on the table. Sebastian groans, using his shoulder to flip himself over onto his back on the hard wood floor. He tries to probe at the cracks in his ribs, bulging ugly up against his skin. A short, burning flare of pain stabs up into his lungs and makes him jerk his hand away.

“Do better,” Severin says, from the table. Sebastian chokes out a laugh that has more than a little bit of blood in it. “Augustus will expect a report.” His voice is cold and clipped.

At least he did the courtesy of snapping Sebastian’s nose back to straight.

A newspaper thunks to the floor beside Sebastian’s head. “And _control_ yourself,” Severin adds. “Stop _killing_ them.”

Sebastian doesn’t bother saying that it wasn’t him. Severin wouldn’t listen. His footsteps click neatly over Sebastian’s floor to the kitchen, and water runs into the sink. Sebastian tries to open his eyes, but his left one, at least, is swollen shut. He feels mashed-up, like he’s got hamburger on his head barely molded into the shape of a face. There’s a soft clink as Severin sets a glass of water down by his head.

“Don’t make me come back here,” he tells Sebastian, “It’s in your own best interest.”

He turns the light off before he goes - to save power - and leaves Sebastian bleeding in the dark.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Sebastian puts one hand on the floor and uses it to push himself up to his knees. His voice gives out somewhere in the first word of _who is it,_ so what comes out is a ragged, “Hua.” Sebastian coughs blood onto the hardwood, and tries again.

“Who’s there?” His voice sounds like sandpaper and tastes like acid. _Knock. Knock. Knock._

The flat’s dark. The sun’s set outside and there aren’t any lights on. Sebastian uses the table to haul himself to his feet, Severin’s newspaper still clasped in his fist. There are dark red smears over _Acclaimed Pianist Found Dead,_ obscuring the first line of the article, although Sebastian didn’t have to read it to know what happened.

He gets the kitchen light as he stumbles to the door, the cheap fluorescent light humming and clicking before it slowly flickers to life. The lock’s turned from the outside, locking Sebastian in. Severin has a key, because of course he does.

Sebastian unlocks his door, opens it, and leans heavily on the frame.

“Yes,” Jim Moriarty says, taking in the bruises and bandages, “I thought so.” He pushes inside without waiting for an invitation, heading for the center of the apartment with an odd little bounce in his step that puts him off gait. Sebastian doesn’t take his weight off the doorframe. He doesn’t bother to do anything more than look over his shoulder. Jim turns a slow circle, staring at the room without any expression whatsoever. The space looks smaller with him in it. Sebastian is acutely aware of the mess, the smell of cigarettes and blood still hanging in the air.

“Get out,” Seb tells Jim flatly, lacking the energy for much else.

Jim stretches his neck out slowly to the side, until Sebastian can hear the bones in his spine snap and pop. “No,” he tells Sebastian, calm and reasonable. “I’m not _stupid,_ Sebastian, I know this is my fault.” He says it emotionlessly, like he’s giving the sum of a math equation.

Sebastian finally shuts the door and turns to face Jim.

“Augustus Moran was not a very forgiving father. I imagine.” There’s a curious quirk to Jim’s eyebrows, and Seb can’t tell if it’s amusement or pity. His eyes are what they always are; hollow and inhuman. He’s wearing a wool coat with rain still caught on the shoulders and a neat gray suit that looks bespoke. His tie probably cost more than Seb’s rent.

Jim doesn’t look like he belongs here. Sebastian can’t think of anything to say. His broken nose is aching, and every time he breathes in it feels like someone is shoving a hot poker through his lung. He sucks his bottom lip in over his teeth and chews at his broken skin until he’s rewarded with a sudden stab of sharp pain like a needle. Jim tucks his hands into his pockets and rocks on his heels, not hurrying Sebastian’s silence. Augustus Moran hangs on the air between them, huge and insurmountable and too big to see around.

_What do you say about Augustus Moran?_

“Saw you in the news,” Seb tries, finally, because you don’t say _anything_ about Augustus Moran. You change the subject, and you pretend nothing is happening, and you forget what it’s like to live without hating yourself.

“Did you?” Jim asks lazily. His lips snags sideways in what might be the start of a smile, but he doesn’t question the change of subject. Sebastian nods. Jim shrugs, and ambles over to the kitchen table. He throws his coat over the back of his chair and takes a seat next to an empty beer bottle and a full ashtray. The chair squeaks as he leans forward; laces his fingers together and rests his chin on them, bracing his elbows on the table. “What did you think?”

In the lights of the kitchen Jim looks warm and surprisingly soft, like there might once have been a time when he was human. He’s got chapped skin on his lips and raw sores around his fingernails, skin-picked until they bled. His shirt falls open to the deep hollow of his throat, where his surface is stretched tight over his tendons. When he breathes the pulse in his throat seems almost visible, underneath his skin like smooth, perfect cream.

Seb has to look away. “Don’t ask me what I think about you _killing_ people,” he growls, “It’s sick.” Jim laughs.

“What do I deal with first? The daddy issues or the denial?”

Sebastian drops heavily into a chair across the table from him, ignoring the screaming pain shooting up from his ribs. Above them the cheap light buzzes, threatening to go out. Jim watches Sebastian with a breathless, teasing grin, like he’s waiting for the next round of entertainment. Sebastian is too tired and hurt to be angry about it.

“I’m not talking about this with you,” he informs Jim coolly, which earns him another laugh.

“You’re not ready for _Daddy Issues_ yet,” Jim decides, leaning back in his chair. “That whole... business with your family. Let’s do _Denial._ ” He eyes Sebastian with a thoughtful expression, one eyebrow arched. Sebastian wipes his lips on the back of his hand, smearing blood over his knuckles. Jim’s thumb and pinky finger rest on the table and he drums back and forth between the two, wrist lifted in a pianist’s elegant arc.

“Do we have too?” Sebastian sneers.

Jim grins dazzlingly back. “I told you I was going to keep you,” he murmurs, holding Sebastian’s gaze, “When I killed that dreadful clarinet. And you wanted that.”

Sebastian feels a muscle in his jaw tense. No matter what Jim thinks, he’s not ready for this either. “No,” he says, trying hard to sound honest.

Jim doesn’t listen. “Like you wanted to stay and watch me come down Sherlock’s throat.” His voice is soft and full of promise.

_“No.”_

Jim stretches his neck out in that lizard-like way of his, making his muscles stand out sharply. Sebastian’s lungs burn with the strain of breathing. “You’re starting to frustrate me, Sebastian,” Jim purrs. He sounds like deep undercurrents, like molten stone. Liquid and deep and absolutely lethal. Sebastian forgets to hurt for a moment, listening. “Stop pretending,” Jim coaxes, “You’re not scared of me. You want me. And I am in the very, _very_ rare position of owing you something.”

That’s the point in the conversation where Sebastian stops breathing.

“I am _offering_ ,” Jim says, “And I won’t offer again.”

He might as well be the snake in the garden. Sebastian pulls a shuddering lungful of air. “Jim – “

“ _Sst_.” Jim’s fingers drum on the table. “Don’t say no, Sebastian. I’ll take you seriously.” Sebastian’s lips are dry as desert stone. He licks them, but can’t seem to wet them. There’s blood on his tongue. His hands are empty, and his palms are tingling, and the kitchen light is buzzing loudly to itself as its circuits start to fail.

Jim Moriarty stands up, tucks his chair in, and steps neatly to Sebastian’s side. He reaches out and touches Sebastian’s cheek with just the pad of his middle finger, skin soft as he traces the bone. Sebastian can feel him limning the outline of a bruise, and it’s like a feather and a scalpel blade at the same time, soft and sharp and just a little bit painful. Sebastian sucks in a hissing breath over his teeth. The room seems very close now, and too hot everywhere except for around Sebastian’s hands, which are frostbite-numb on the table.

Sebastian shuts his eyes, and Jim steps closer. He cards his fingers through Sebastian’s hair, ignoring the knots and mats of blood that catch on his nails. Sebastian lets his head fall back, tilting his face up to Jim with his eyes still closed. His heart is drumming somewhere closer to his ribcage than seems healthy, and he feels half dizzy with the rush of adrenaline flooding his system.

“I am offering,” Jim breathes softly, watching Sebastian like a hawk on a rat.

Sebastian lets his eyes slide open to just the narrowest of slits. All he can see is Jim, dark-eyes and shadows in the broken light. He doesn’t know what Jim’s offering. It doesn’t matter. Sebastian can taste blood when he licks his lips. Jim’s hand in his hair tightens to a fist, pulling Sebastian backwards until his tortured ribs grind on the hard wood of his chair, and there’s a moment where Sebastian thinks the air itself has gotten heavier because it’s so hard to breathe.

“Yes,” he gasps, “ _Yes.”_

“Good.” Jim sounds like he means it.

He straddles Sebastian on the chair with a single motion, quick as a cat or a striking snake. He doesn’t give Seb enough time to do anything but take a hissing breath and flinch backwards. Jim’s _fast -_ scary fast - almost inhuman in the liquid speed of his motion _._ Sebastian thinks horribly of murder victims and Jim’s sure, white hands, how they must have blurred with a knife. The kitchen light flickers.

He raises his hands to shove Jim away and Jim just laughs. “If you touch me I’ll stop,” he sings, with a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Then what am I supposed to – “

“Shh,” Jim interrupts sharply. He cups Sebastian’s face. His thumb brushes over Sebastian’s lips, cold as ice. Sebastian fights the urge to bite. Jim doesn’t weigh much – barely more than bones and malice, as he shifts himself forward until he’s pressed tight against Sebastian’s stomach. The broken shards of Sebastian’s rips shift, punching the air out of Sebastian’s lungs.

“What are you doing?” he rasps.

Jim cocks his head to the side. “I owe you a show,” he says, simply. His thumb traces one more circle on Sebastian’s lip, snagging the skin, then his hands slide, palm flat, down Sebastian’s chest.

“What the – “ Sebastian cuts himself off with a sharp, barking sound, as Jim presses on his broken ribs. It feels like being crushed, like Jim’s pushing daggers slowly through his chest.

“ _Shh,”_ Jim frowns. His hands slide lower, down Sebastian’s hips, and he pushes Sebastian down into the chair. “As fun as your denial is, darling, I don’t have _time_ to play pretend. _You want this_.” He leans forward, bracing their foreheads together, and drops his voice to a hissing whisper. “You need it.” Sebastian can feel Jim’s breath against his lips, picking up, just a little heavy. Jim presses down on Sebastian’s hipbones one last time, then his hands slide to his own thighs. “It’s driving you _insane,_ but you can’t stop _thinking_ about it.”

Sebastian watches as Jim’s pale, slender hands run up his own thighs. He wishes desperately that Jim was wrong; but, _Christ,_ Jim’s palm presses where his cock must be trapped under his pants, and Sebastian _wants._ He needs.

“Good,” Jim says again. “You’re getting it.” He unbuttons the jacket of his suit and tosses it off backwards beside his coat. Without it he’s painfully thin, the crisp white cotton of his shirt clinging tightly to his narrow waist. Sebastian reaches forward, wanting to curve his hands around Jim’s ribs, and Jim clicks his tongue in a neat snap of disapproval.

Sebastian pauses, his hands where they are.

“I’m getting tired of restating the rules,” Jim chides him. “Be _have._ ”

Sebastian’s hands drop back to the seat of the chair. He grips it hard, like holding on will keep him steady. “So obedient,” Jim purrs. Sebastian tries hard not to feel a warm rush in his stomach at the approval in Jim’s voice. He’s in over his head, and he knows it. The beating was almost better – the blunt hard impact of Severin’s fists, the blinding burst of pain – at least he’d understood that. At least he’d known what to hold on to.

Jim’s hand goes back to his trousers and Sebastian doesn’t know what to hold on to at all. Jim has to shift himself a little, canting his hips upwards, to get his belt buckle. It rolls him forward in Sebastian’s lap so his ass presses directly against Sebastian’s cock.

And that –

Sebastian sucks in a lungful of air so quick it makes his head spin. Jim grins wickedly. “Like that?” he asks, and rocks his hips forward again as he draws off his belt. “Too bad _that’s_ not what I owe you, baby boy.” He leans forward to hiss in Sebastian’s ear. “I could make you come in your pants, if I wanted to. Just – “ A wicked grind of his hips – “Like – This – “

The only sound in the room is Sebastian’s breathing and the harsh pull of Jim’s zipper as he gets his pants undone. Sebastian’s tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth and he wants desperately to ask what the fuck is going on, but doesn’t trust Jim to keep going if he does.

Jim’s mouth is pressed against Sebastian’s earlobe, his lips a hair away from brushing Sebastian’s skin. His breath is warm and hot, loud in the stillness. It’s cutting off Sebastian’s access to a good part of his brain. Sebastian inhales so hard his chest swells against his broken ribs like razor wire, and nearly misses the soft whisper of flesh on flesh as Jim takes himself in hand.

There’s no way he’d miss the hitch in Jim’s breathing, though. The quiet, helpless catch as Jim forgets, for a second, to draw air at all.

Sebastian’s eyes fly open. Jim’s got one hand on his shoulder, grinding hard into the bone as it takes his weight. His eyes are shut, dark lashes stark against his cheekbones, his hair falling carelessly over his temples. The room seems surreally silent, Jim’s breathing harsh and rasping in the stillness.

Sebastian looks down between them and watches as Jim strokes his cock, fingers wrapped in a tight fist around his own length. Seb curses before he can help himself and is rewarded by a breathless laugh from Jim, cut off into a low moan. His knuckles go white as he grips himself tighter, skin pulling on each stroke. He’s working fast, and just a little bit too hard, the sound of skin-on-skin filling the room.

It smells like precum and sweat. Sebastian’s failing to get enough oxygen to his brain. Jim’s breath is coming in little hitching bursts, now. He’s stroking faster. Twisting his hand a little as it moves over his head. His thumb runs hard over his slit, and comes away wet.

“Jim,” Sebastian starts, needing to say something. He can feel himself getting hard, his cock pressing tight against Jim’s ass.

“Don’t,” Jim moans back, too quickly. “Don’t – don’t, just – “

Sebastian wants to reach out and touch Jim so badly it’s like a fire under his skin. He wants to grab Jim’s bony hips, the hard angles of his ribs, wants to cover Jim’s small hand with his own and fist Jim’s cock so tight and fast that Jim screams into his shoulder. A growl builds in his chest, a thrumming rumble that curls on the air between them like a threat.

“ _Yes,”_ Jim hisses. His hips start to jerk, working his cock up into his fist. Sebastian can see a gleaming bead of come building between his fingers. Jim’s thumb moves tight circles as he strokes – he’s got quick fingers, of course, _pianist’s_ fingers, and _fuck,_ Sebastian can’t think. His mind is a thick blur of images, picturing Jim’s fingers on Seb’s cock, Jim’s _mouth_ on his cock, Jim pushed backwards on the kitchen table with pre-cum smeared on his belly, reaching out helplessly –

_Sebastian –_

Seb can’t tell if Jim’s spoken out loud or in his fantasy. He feels like he’s drowning. He feels like the whole world’s gone dark.

Jim works himself faster, rocking himself in Sebastian’s lap. He’s barely breathing steady at all, now. On each stroke he grinds himself backwards, pressing Sebastian’s cock up against his ass through the rough fabric of their pants. It’s like torture. Sebastian is over-sensitive, the drag of his zipper on his skin like sandpaper. Against Sebastian’s shoulder, Jim’s forehead is damp with sweat.

He whimpers.

Sebastian grips the sides of the chair so hard he digs splinters into his fingers. He has to shut his eyes. He can’t take watching. It might be worse with them closed, though, with the sound of Jim’s moaning tight against his ear and the hard press of Jim’s ass working against his cock. Sebastian bites his lip hard enough to break his scabs, drawing blood into his mouth. Jim’s moaning. Jim’s tongue is making a wet sound as he licks his lips, and the frantic jerk of his hand sounds slick with pre-cum. He sounds hollow when he draws breath.

“Jim,” Sebastian pants, mindless, hardly knowing that he’s saying anything at all.

“ _Oh.”_ Jim sounds like he’s melting. “ _That –_ “

When he comes he goes rigid, twisting and spasming in Sebastian’s lap like somebody’s pumping electricity through his spine. Sebastian looks down in time to see thick, white come smear over Jim’s fingers, as the muscles of his stomach tense and shudder. He pushes backwards against Sebastian’s cock one last time, hard enough that his bones might bruise Sebastian’s thighs.

They groan at the same time – Jim satisfied, Sebastian helpless and hungry.

“There,” Jim says, absolutely calmly, as if he hadn’t done anything at all. “There, Sebastian, I _owed_ you.”

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

Seb’s phone buzzes on the bedside table. Jim takes one last deep breath and shoves himself backwards, out of Sebastian’s lap. “Going to get that?” he asks, solicitously, as he zips his pants back up. For a long moment, the words don’t penetrate the impatient cloud of Sebastian’s brain.

He can’t think of anything but Jim – the smell of Jim’s skin, Jim’s lip tented in his teeth, the helpless jerk of Jim’s hips up into his hand. How the fuck would he even _start_ to care about a phone call?

But Jim’s serious. He’s already going. He pads lightly out of the kitchen to the bed, and picks up Sebastian’s phone; looking at it like he’s never seen a cell before in his life. Sebastian takes a fortifying breath, pushing himself up a little straighter in his seat. His cock is still rock-hard, straining against the zipper of his pants. Jim glances back over his shoulder, smiling with satisfaction.

“What are you doing?” Sebastian growls.

“It’s _John,_ ” Jim replies, delighted.

“Get _fucked,_ ” Sebastian snaps back, hoping Jim will take it literally. “Jim – “

Jim throws him the phone, and Sebastian catches it out of instinct.

“Answer it.”

“Like hell.”

Jim frowns. “ _Answer_ it, Sebastian, or I’ll tell him exactly why you couldn’t.” When Sebastian hesitates, Jim sighs and adds, “Should I tell _Augustus_ instead?”

Sebastian answers the phone.

“Hello?” He sounds like he’s just run a marathon. Like he’s currently being strangled. A wide, malicious grin spreads over Jim’s face.

“Hi – bad time?” John’s voice crackles warmly through the cheap speaker.

“No,” Sebastian says, meaning _yes._ Jim’s buttoning up his suit jacket again, fixing the hang of his tie.

“I was just wondering if you might like a pint,” John asks. Jim’s grabbing his coat. Sebastian wants to say _wait._ He wants to say _fuck you, come back here, don’t you dare leave._ Jim meets his eyes and smiles.

“Tonight?” Sebastian replies, distracted. Jim swings his coat over his shoulders.

“If that’s fine.” John sounds nervous.

Sebastian wants to say, _I’m busy,_ but only because he wishes it was true. Jim’s already headed for the door. Seb shuts his eyes, so he doesn’t have to watch Jim go. “I’d love a pint,” he says.

The door clicks shut.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

John meets Sebastian outside Collin Campbell’s in blue jeans and a black wool coat that makes him look like a soldier. Any other time Sebastian’d be staring at the neat way it cuts in to his waist, but now –

“Jesus Christ,” John says softly.

Sebastian had almost forgotten what he looks like after Severin’s visits. He rubs a hand awkwardly over his hair. “Yeah,” he mutters, “Sorry ‘bout that. Kinda a rough day.”

John steps closer. The air outside is cold enough that it sears Sebastian’s lungs when he sucks a breath in. John’s thumb strokes over the broken skin on his cheek, feeling the edge of his bruise. His fingers are rough with callouses and warm, heartbreakingly gentle. Sebastian tries hard not to think of Jim’s cold, cruel fingers. He shuts his eyes. He can smell John through the autumn heat, ale and men’s cologne.

“What happened?” John asks. Sebastian hesitates. “Seb,” John says, quietly, “I know that – that you’re probably not going to want to talk about this. But I can’t just ignore it.”

Sebastian opens his eyes. John’s standing close – just on the edge of too close, his lip sucked in under his teeth as he stares up at Sebastian with open concern. It burns in Sebastian’s chest. He wishes he hadn’t shown up. “I can’t,” he says, with a rough jerk of his head. “John, I just can’t.”

And just like that he’s fucked it all up again.

Sebastian shakes a smoke out of his pocket and taps it against his knuckle. He looks away, down the darkened streets, and waits for John to leave. Walk away, tell Seb some stupid bullshit about getting together later, and never speak to him again. When he draws breath, his broken ribs press against their bandages, another reminder of just how broken he’s become.

Seb puts the smoke in his mouth and when he tries to light it, his hands shake.

 _Shit,_ he thinks, calmly. The lighter flicks. Smoke runs down the inside his chest, harsh and burning.

“Okay,” John says quietly. Sebastian pulls the smoke from his mouth and exhales, looking up. John’s face is twisted, his eyebrows knotted harsh over his face. He looks like he’s trying to swallow something that doesn’t quite fit down his throat. “Okay,” he repeats, with a short nod. “So – here’s what we’re going to do. You – are going to put _that_ out,” jabbing a stubby finger at Sebastian’s cigarette, “And we’re not going to have a pint.”

“We’re not?” Sebastian asks, stupidly.

“No, Seb,” John replies, smiling, “We’re not. We’re going back to my place. For coffee. And telly. Alright?”

Sebastian frowns, not understanding. “Why – “

He gets halfway through another pull on his smoke before he looks at John’s face, and freezes. John’s got the sort of grin on his face that puts Sebastian in mind of dive-bars and drag-races and leopard-print women. Dangerous and fast and enticing. Sebastian swallows. After Jim, he’s not sure if he can _take_ it.

He lowers his smoke again without taking a drag. “Why your place?”

“Wanted to be a doctor when I was younger,” John replies, still smiling that _I-dare-you_ grin. “I’ll fix you up a bit.” Sebastian’s cigarette dangles from his fingers, completely forgotten. John huffs out a sigh, as if he’s incredibly frustrated with Sebastian for not getting it immediately. He steps forward, closing the distance between them. They were standing too close already, and now the white cloud of John’s breath in the cold brushes against Sebastian’s lips.

“I like you, you great big git,” John tells Sebastian, “I want to keep you around.”

He doesn’t know he’s echoing Jim.

John’s close enough now that Sebastian can see the rough stubble on his jaw. He’s missed a spot of shaving cream, just behind his ear, and rubbed his jawline red. Sebastian tries to say _what are you doing_ and _I can’t_ all at once, opens his mouth, and finds that no sound comes out.

The warm press of John’s hand on the side of his neck is a searing shock. Sebastian jumps. He raises his hands defensively, but the cigarette’s still tucked between his fingers and he doesn’t want to burn John’s coat. John’s smile is fading from his lips as he leans upwards, fitting the hard muscles of his chest against Sebastian. His breath is caught between his teeth. Sebastian doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He feels too-big and awkward, all hollow with shock except for a warm, comfortable heat building in his stomach.

John draws Sebastian down and kisses him.

John tastes of spiced-rum and PG tips, pressed firm against Sebastian for a long moment before Sebastian opens his mouth and John licks his way into it. There’s no teeth, no cruelty, no rush. John kisses slow and thorough and unhurried, taking his time demolishing Sebastian. He’s stronger than he looks, steady, and by the time he pulls back Sebastian is leaning heavily on his arm. Panting.

“John – “

“Come home with me,” John says. Open and honest. No hidden agenda, no cruel manipulation. Just John. It couldn’t be less like the sly darkness Jim had wrapped around Sebastian’s kitchen table.

John’s looking at him with a hopeful quirk in his smile. “Oh _god_ yes,” Sebastian replies, and drags John up into another kiss.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

John’s flat is two square feet larger than Sebastian’s little rat trap, but at least the kitchen light is working. John gets the switch, hanging his jacket by the door. His house is tidy, just on the side of a little too neat, except for the mess spread over his table and the drum set hunkering awkwardly in the corner. It takes up too much space, makes the apartment seem smaller. Sebastian shrugs his jacket off and drops it to the ground.

“You could hang it up,” John tells him, without looking around.

“Boring,” Sebastian replies. He crowds John up against the coatrack, feeling the heat of John’s back hard and bony against his chest. The back of John’s neck smells of after-shave. Sebastian puts his hands on John’s hips and slides them upwards, feeling the hard muscle over his ribs and the soft, warm skin of his stomach. “Definitely boring.”

John huffs out a laugh. “Stop it…”

He doesn’t sound particularly convincing. Sebastian runs his hands down John’s stomach, over the bones of his hips, to the rough fabric of his jeans.

“You’re still injured –“ John tries. Sebastian licks a wet spiral up his neck and sucks John’s earlobe in between his teeth. The skin catches, hard enough that John’s breath leaves him in an audible rush.

“It – would be – it would be irresponsible – “

But when Sebastian presses his palm in over John’s cock he can feel John starting to go hard, a thick pressure up against the front of his jeans. Sebastian runs his hand down it, enjoying the way John’s muscles tense up.

“John,” he purrs, into John’s ear, “Are you still talking?” He can’t help loving this.

John makes a short, helpless noise. He’s got his hands up against the wall, bracing himself like it’s holding him upright. Sebastian bites him again, digging his teeth into the warm skin of John’s neck. John tastes of salt and sin. The muscles in his stomach are quivering, clenched so tight a shiver runs over them. Underneath his jeans his cock is hot and hard. Sebastian wraps his fingers around John’s shaft and strokes, slow and tight.

“No,” John breathes, sounding unsteady, “Suppose I’m not.”

He turns awkwardly in Sebastian’s arms, leaning back against the wall. Sebastian presses in closer, chest to chest, feeling John’s heart beat against his t-shirt. He lets his hands run up John’s sides. John’s lungs swell underneath Seb’s fingertips. He tilts his face up to Sebastian, a breathless smile on his lips.

“Really think you can do me justice?” he teases.

“Counting on it,” Sebastian growls. He digs his fingers in to the meat of John’s sides, and leans down to crush their lips together. He expects John to whimper and melt – to be loose and yielding and ready.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

John kisses like a force of nature, wrapping his fists in the front of Sebastian’s shirt and hauling him hard downwards. He’s strong – as strong as he looks. All compact unyielding muscle, his tongue thrusting roughly into Sebastian’s mouth. Sebastian makes a soft sound and kisses him deeper, shoving him back against the wall until he can hear John’s bones grind against the plaster.

John gets a fistful of Sebastian’s hair as revenge, yanking Sebastian down into the kiss. It’s getting vicious fast; Sebastian’s teeth in John’s lips, John’s knuckles white. John gets leverage against the wall somehow, grinds himself forward against Sebastian’s hips. John’s cock ruts up against Sebastian’s, sharp and vivid as torture, too hot and too tight in the small space. When they finally come up for air, Sebastian’s panting. John’s not much better – his blue eyes blown and his blonde hair damp on his forehead.

“Well,” John says, and seems to lose his train of thought. “Well,” he says again.

Sebastian groans. “Don’t you go hesitating on me now.”

“No wonder I don’t have a medical license,” John grins. “You should be in a hospital…” He plants his hands on Sebastian’s chest and shoves, hard. Sebastian stumbles backwards, tripping into an end table and jamming the corner into the back of his knee.

John’s on him in a heartbeat. He grabs Sebastian’s shirt and they go backwards together, careening off the doorframe and into the bedroom. The lights are off, but Sebastian doesn’t even think about it. It’s bright enough by the streetlights to see everything, in a strange desaturate blue. Seb’s got John’s shoulder in his mouth now, his hands fumbling at the buttons of John’s jeans. When Seb’s thighs hit the bed he sits down automatically and draws John backwards with him. John’s bed-sheets are cold. They smell of spiced rum and PG tips, tangled up into a rumpled mess. John is a warm, solid weight in Sebastian’s lap. When he bends his head to get his cuff-buttons, his hair falls self-consciously over his eyes. He drops his shirt neatly off to the side. Over his shoulder there's a scar that looks like a star - like something's paused in his skin in the middle of exploding. When Sebastian runs his thumb over the ruined skin, John shuts his eyes and bites his lip, like he's feeling it happen again.

"Your turn," he whispers. Sounding like he's in pain.

Sebastian can either think about it or keep going, and he's not stopping now.

The air is hot and the cheap cotton of Sebastian’s t-shirt sticks painfully to his broken ribs. He curls upwards on the muscles of his stomach and strips it roughly off, throwing it to one side. It might be a mistake, although Sebastian doesn’t think that until it’s already on the ground. John’s eyes go wide. That’s when Sebastian remembers the bruises; that vulnerable moment where John’s too surprised to hide his horror. Sebastian can’t meet his eyes. John’s weight presses down over Seb’s cock, trapping it between them, as he sits back on his heels. Sebastian bites his lip, waiting for the swearing match.

It doesn’t happen. John just _sits_ there. He stares.

“John – “

“Shh-hh.” John tilts his head to one side like a friendly spaniel, and smiles. “Look at you, then.”

Sebastian glances awkwardly down at himself – tan skin all marked up purple and yellow with bruises, like reminders where Augustus has been. “This old thing?” he asks, trying for casual and missing the mark.

“Just beautiful.” John places his hands on Sebastian’s stomach, palm flat, and runs them up over his chest. As he skims over Seb’s ribs there’s a flicker of pain, barely more than a ghost. Seb hears himself gasp. His eyes squeeze shut. “You know that?” John asks. His hands are warmer than the rest of him, calloused and confident. “Just beautiful.”

Sebastian shivers, and it has nothing to do with temperature. John’s hands brace on his shoulders. He shifts backwards, rolling his weight, rocking himself back against Sebastian’s hips. It’s slow and languid and just a little bit sweet like an aftertaste.

 _Okay,_ Seb thinks, _Enough._

He plants one foot on the mattress and surges upwards.

John manages to get out a yelp of surprise before Sebastian’s arms wrap around him. It puffs out noisy by Sebastian’s ear. John’s heart is hammering in his chest now, rabbit fast. Sebastian pushes upwards on the mattress, twists his shoulders downwards, and uses body-weight to slam them over. John hits his back hard, bouncing upwards, and Sebastian shoves him roughly back down. He seals his mouth over John’s again, kissing him into bruises, like he means it to hurt.

John moans, open-mouthed, when Sebastian tears his mouth away. There’s a flush on John’s face. He looks dazed. The room already smells of sweat and lust, heavy in the shadows. John’s breathing is harsh, and Sebastian’s isn’t much better: it’s too loud in the silence. When there’s no other sound in the world.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Sebastian leans down to hiss in John’s ear, “Harder than you’ve ever been fucked. You’re going to _scream_ for me, John, I can’t fucking _wait._ ” He barely feels the pain as John’s fingernails dig into his back.

“Lube and condoms in the drawer – “ John manages to gasp, as Sebastian sucks a bruise over his jugular. “Oh, _god,_ Sebastian – _Please.”_

Sebastian doesn’t waste time. He rolls off John to the bedside table, toeing off his socks as he goes. Behind him John’s wrestling out of the rest of his clothing, fabric and zipper loud in the quiet. The lube’s in the first drawer down. There’s a box of cheap condoms and a book tilted _The Uncivil Wars,_ beside a little day planner that looks like it belongs to someone’s gran. Sebastian can’t help grinning.

He stands by the side of the bed to take off his pants, just so he can stare down at John.

John’s laid out on the pillows, one hand twisted in the bed sheets and the other on his stomach just above his cock. He’s not skinny, not scary-skinny like Jim or model-skinny like Sherlock. John’s comfortable. He looks like he belongs here – with the white bed sheets rumpled around him, his hair mussed so it sticks up in the back. His lips are slightly parted, his tongue pink as he wets them.

“Look who’s talking,” Sebastian says, on a whim. “God save me.”

He grins, and John grins back. “Get over here, you git,” he tells Sebastian fondly.

“Sir yes sir.”

Sebastian kneels on the bed between John’s legs. There’s fine white hairs on John’s thighs that stand up in goose-bumps when Sebastian trails his fingers over them. John looks good like this, washed all pale by the streetlight. He looks like a statue of Asclepius, like he’s made of marble rather than flesh. Although surely no one sculpted gods on their backs, like this, spread out and waiting for Sebastian.

Sebastian grabs John under his hips and hauls him down the bed. John exhales shakily, watching with blown-black eyes as Sebastian lubes his fingers. “You sure?” John asks, which is an odd line, seeing as he’s the one getting fucked.

“Oh yeah,” Seb replies, without hesitation. He slips his fingers up the inside of John’s thigh, leaving a wet trail over his skin. John’s cock twitches on his stomach, precum beading at the tip. Sebastian licks his lips, resisting the urge to bite them. He’d only draw blood. “Christ, you look good like this.”

John frowns. He looks like he’s about to say something. Unless it’s _no,_ Sebastian doesn’t give a fuck.

John opens his mouth and Sebastian cuts him off by pressing a finger inside him, curved up to rub tight circles around John’s prostate. He pushes inside almost without resistance, but John makes a whimpering sound like Sebastian’s cut him clean open. His hips jerk – spasming off the bed, into Sebastian’s hand as if asking for more. Sebastian traces more quick little circles around John’s prostate, building him steady and sure towards the brink.

John tosses his head sideways on the pillow to pant into the fabric. A line of precum runs down his shaft and Seb, on impulse, leans forward to lick it up as he pushes another finger inside John.

John moans, low and rumbling like thunder. His shoulders arc backward, lifting his back off the bed and pushing his hips against Sebastian’s fingers like he’s greedy. Like he can’t help wanting more. Like there isn’t a thought in his head but unrelenting pressure on his prostate and the wet, sharp feeling of the air on the wet skin of his cock.

“Sebastian – “ he pants.

A third finger.

This time John cries out, and Sebastian has to wrap a hand around his own cock just to take some of the pressure off. It’s sinfully good. _Unbelievably_ good. Sebastian feels like his skin’s got more nerve endings than usual, like every cap of his palm over the head of his cock is rubbing him raw somewhere deeper than skin. He barely remembers to move his fingers inside John – thrust, circle, spread, working John open.

It’s like something under his skin is itching, pressing outwards, like there’s something hollow inside him. He _needs_ John. Desperately, achingly, so badly it blocks out every other thought.

“Okay – “ John is panting, “Alright, Sebast – Seb, _please –_ I’m ready – _please_ – “ His head is tossed back and his mouth is wet, tongue licked up against his teeth like he thinks he can concentrate his way through this. Sebastian grabs his cock in a ring of tight fingers and slides a condom on, snarling as it pulls at his skin.

Their mouths glance together again when Sebastian folds back over John. John’s lost the skill for it – it’s a slick slide of lips without any pressure whatsoever. Sebastian grabs John’s wrists and jams them up over his head, pulling up and up and up until John has to stretch himself on the bed like a man on the rack, rubbing his cock against Sebastian’s stomach.

Sebastian slams home in single thrust, without even thinking of mercy. It makes a warm wave crash over his brain, obliterating everything but the sound of John crying out again. Louder, this time. A tuneless rasp of sound that rips up from somewhere deep in his stomach. He twists on the bed, wanting more – wanting anything Seb will give him. He looks damn good like this, all muscle and strength and the pale green-blue of his eyes.

But Seb’s bigger, and stronger, and in the end John doesn’t stand a chance. The tendons in his wrists stand out in Sebastian’s grip, skin pale against Sebastian’s tan.

Sebastian tries not to think of the pure flawless white of Jim’s neck, like bone. “Oh god – “ John pants, mindlessly, “Oh god, Sebastian – “

“Patience.” Sebastian knees John’s thighs a little wider and tightens his grip. John’s small beneath him, torso stretched taut just to take pressure off Sebastian’s grip on his wrists. Sebastian tugs him a little higher, watching all the muscles in John’s torso draw tight and rigid as rock.

“ _Sebastian._ ”

Sebastian starts slow, at first. Long, rolling thrusts, deep and hard but achingly slow. Every time he slams them forward, pounding the bed back against the wall, John loses all the air in his lungs. He pants and writhes beneath Sebastian shamelessly, utterly taken apart, the blue of his eyes nearly swallowed in black. Sebastian can’t make out what John’s panting – something about _yes,_ and _more._

He can’t keep the slow pace for long. It isn’t an option – not like this. Not between them. The instant he lets go of John’s hands, John grabs for him, but Sebastian doesn’t mind. He’s already folding himself over tight, chest to chest with John, digging his nails into John’s back. John scratches as good as he gets – clawing up Sebastian’s back with animal fury while Sebastian gathers fistfuls of John’s hair. It feels beyond real – too many nerves in Sebastian’s skin, all singing pain and pleasure at once. With each the slick slide of John’s flesh on his makes his stomach more hollow, a tight gnawing pleasure growing inside the skin.

He feels like he might cry, and settles for snarling in John’s shoulder. He bites a bruise there, worrying the flesh in his teeth like a dog on a rat.

“Sebastian – “ John gasps.

“ _Yes,_ ” Sebastian replies. He shoves a hand roughly down between them and grabs John a little too tight. He strokes quick and dirty, John’s skin pulling underneath his callouses. John makes a sound like he’s dying. Sebastian slams into him off rhythm with the sloppy stroke of his hand, fucking into John with deep, hard strokes that make his own brain go offline along with John’s. It just feels too good. Too real. The pain of his ribs and the wet sounds of John underneath him, the helpless whimpers John can’t manage to bite back filling the room.

 _I’ll make you scream,_ Seb said.

“You like that?” he snarls, in John’s ear, with what’s left of his functioning brain, “Getting fucked? God, wish you knew how good you feel – “

John moans, his body twitching. Sebastian can feel his muscles start to go tense. John’s thighs jerk on the bed, his heels planting so he can push himself upwards into Sebastian’s unforgiving thrusts.

It feels like he’s drawing blood with his nails over Sebastian’s shoulder blades.

“Seb – fuck, I’m going to – you’re going to make me – “

“Shut up and _come,_ ” Sebastian growls.

And John does. He screams Sebastian’s name. He writhes; spends himself helplessly in long jerks onto his stomach, clutching Sebastian tight enough that neither of them should be able to breathe.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

“What are you doing?” John asks, pushing himself up on one elbow. Sebastian looks back. John’s cheeks are still flushed with exertion and he’s frowning, something hurt and insecure wavering in his blue eyes.

“Leaving,” Sebastian tells him roughly.

“Seb – “

“I’m just not the sort for mornings after,” Sebastian says, and is rewarded with a sharp stab of pain across John’s expression. It makes his stomach turn. John screws the sheets up in his fist and squeezes them until his knuckles go white. Sebastian watches him count out calming breaths and wishes he could take the words back, but John’s already rolling over away from him.

“Fine,” he says flatly, his shoulders hunched up around his neck, “Get out of here.”

His voice is curt and crisp and he has every reason to sound betrayed. Sebastian sighs. “It’s not like that,” he says. No response. “John…” Nothing.

Sebastian comes back to the bedside and sits heavily, feeling out of place and over-dressed in blue-jeans. John’s curtains are open, and the whole room is painted with soft ivory colours from the streetlight outside. Pale, creamy blues, and moonlight yellows, and fuzzy shadows without edges. Sebastian rubs a hand through his hair and his palm comes away greasy.

“It’s not personal,” Sebastian says, finally.

He can hear the rustle and creak of the mattress as John rolls over.

“We _slept_ together, Sebastian,” John accuses, “How much more personal d’you think this could be?”

“It’s not – “ _you. I’d do it to anyone. You could be anyone else and I’d still be –_ Sebastian chokes down the words before they can leave his mouth. It _couldn’t_ be anyone else, after all. It had to be John. Solid, understanding, unshakeable John, and the stupid fucking way he’d looked at Sebastian’s bruises like he actually thought he could heal them.

That’s the fucking _problem._

Awkward silence falls over them like snowdrifts piling up in the winter. Outside, someone speeds through the parking-lot, wheels churning up the puddles with a soft sound like the rain’s still falling. Sebastian stretches his neck out to the side and shifts, getting comfortable, but no matter where he sits he feels like he’s about to go numb. It’s started to rain again, drumming softly on the skylight, and the quiet in the room is becoming just a little bit raw. Sebastian feels like he’s pulled the first layer of his skin off, leaving himself vulnerable. Like his whole surface is stinging.

The silence is so loud Sebastian thinks there’s blood rushing in his ears.

Finally, John sighs. “Alright,” he says quietly. “So.”

Sebastian waits a full four beats before he realizes John’s waiting to be prompted. “So?”

“So here’s the thing.” John rolls over, onto his side facing Seb. In the uncertain light, his scar looks perfectly white; like someone’s drawn on his shoulder with a marker, etching their signature into his skin. “Obviously we didn’t talk about this – us. Think it’s pretty obvious we had different expectations.” John sounds like he’s trying very hard to keep his voice steady, and not quite managing. He doesn’t flinch, though. He looks Seb in the eyes, even though Sebastian dressed up and ready to go must be twisting the knife in his heart.

“John…” Sebastian means to apologize. The words are on the tip of his tongue, scripted out and practiced. He doesn’t think he means them, this time. Seb doesn’t want to call John tomorrow. He doesn’t want to see him again. It wasn’t _nice._ Sebastian feels ripped-raw and hollow, like John’s pulled the lid off something too deep and fragile to bear morning’s-after.

John interrupts Sebastian’s trite apology with a shake of his head. “But I’m willing to talk about that, too. If what you want is to part as friends –” His mouth works crookedly, like he’s biting his lip on the inside to steal himself to it. “Well, that’s what you want.” It isn’t true, obviously. And it’s eating John up inside. He looks up and meets Sebastian’s eyes again, with a transparently forced smile.

“Only do me a favour,” John says, “Leave in the morning.”

Sebastian’s heard it enough times to know what it means.

_Let me pretend for just a little while longer._

Sebastian feels stupid. Stupid and broken and too big for his skin and the cozy room and John’s warm, solid chest underneath the blankets. Everything suits Sebastian just a little bit badly, even this. Even the best goddamn go he’s ever going to have at something normal, and it doesn’t fit right. John’s got his head propped up on one hand as he watches Sebastian. His jaw is set, hard and determined, but his cheek is still sucked in over his teeth. His expression makes Sebastian ache, restlessly; until he wants to stand up and leave without another word, or throw John back in the sheets and take him again, or scream.

John’s watching still, silent and more anxious then he’d ever let himself let on. If he’d pressed, Sebastian would have run.

As it is –

Sebastian stands up and kicks his jeans back under the bed. “Fine, make me feel like a giant prick,” he teases, climbing back into bed. The humour falls a little flat, but they both pretend it doesn’t.

“I was thinking _something_ about giant pricks,” John responds easily, lifting up the blanket to let Sebastian in. When Sebastian pulls John in to his chest John exhales, just once, shaky and a little bit too quick. Sebastian’s heart aches. He wraps his arm around John’s shoulders, all the way around, holding tight to the firm broad muscle of John’s arm like he’s making a shield out of his flesh. Like he could possibly protect John. Sebastian buries his hair in John’s mousy blonde curls, washed colourless by the streetlamp, and shuts his eyes.

He tries hard not to hate himself.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

Sebastian wakes up like throwing himself out of a nightmare, zero-to-sixty in a heartbeat. He’s covered in sweat and panting, the blankets kicked into a twisting knot around his legs. Without thinking he rolls to the side of the bed and pushes himself upright, only realizing that something’s wrong when his toes sink into lush carpet.

Behind him in the bed, John rolls over with a sleepy, complaining sound.

Sebastian scrubs his hands over his face, chasing away some horror that’s already fading. It’s bright enough out to be morning, traffic loud outside John’s window.

The thought makes Sebastian turn around and look at John, still wrapped in the off-white bed sheets. He’s nestled into the pillows on his stomach with his head turned to the side, a concerned frown knit across his face. This time, he doesn’t wake up when Sebastian slips away.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫


	6. Chapter 6

Sebastian keeps thinking he should program his phone to play the Imperial march from Star Wars when Augustus calls, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it.

The phone buzzes across the kitchen table. When he picks up, Augustus doesn’t wait for him to say hello. “Sebastian.” Augustus’s voice is neat; clipped; just slightly crackly with the static of a bad connection. “I spoke with Severin and I have to say, I’m disappointed.”

Sebastian shoves a half-finished plate of eggs away and bends forward until he can rest his forehead against the warmed wood. “I know,” he says into the phone, half muffled by his own breathing. His voice is thready. He’s tired: it seems like he’s always tired, these days.

Augustus exhales slowly through his nose, a habit picked up from some long-forgotten anger management therapy. “You continue to be a frustration to me and a disservice to the reputation of this family. I had hoped by now you would have picked up some measure of self-preservation…”

Sebastian’s face still aches, the bruises on his skin a sick motley of purple and yellow. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he’s not even sure if he’s lying anymore.

“Do better.”

The funny thing is that Augustus means it. He wants Sebastian in line. Another perfect toy musician to wind up and set alongside Severin.

Sebastian feels sick. “I’m not sure what you expected,” he says bitterly, straightening up in his chair. He stares at the broken oven clock, thinking incongruously of John – the explosion in his skin, the set lines of his face when he realized Sebastian was leaving. “You knew I was a fuck-up. You’ve said it often enough.” The yellow numbers in the clock switch over meaninglessly.

“You are my son,” Augustus tells him simply, “You are a Moran. Have you forgotten what that means?”

 _Obedience,_ Sebastian wants to say, _perfection, inhumanity, absolute control._ “No. I haven’t.” He shuts his eyes and shifts restlessly in his chair, unable to find a comfortable sitting position. His eggs are getting cold, a thin film of grease forming on the plate. _Eat shit and die,_ he wants to say, _I don’t give a fuck what you think of me. I don’t care what it means to be a Moran._

“I’ll do better,” he promises.

“Will you?” Dead silence. “I’ve arranged a ticket for you to see an opera Severin is conducting in town this weekend. _La Traviata._ I’m sure you remember.” It’s not a question.

“Forty-five minutes of aria for a woman dying of consumption,” Sebastian replies, “How could I forget?”

He can almost hear Augustus raising his eyebrows, and immediately regrets the sarcasm. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” Sebastian leans back in his chair, rubbing his broken ribs against the hard wood. “I’ll be there.”

“Of course you will,” Augustus replies, placid and implacable as a glacier grinding down rock. “The ushers have your ticket. I would have gotten a second, but you have been… unreliable when it comes to selecting companions. This is not a reward, Sebastian. It is a lesson. Your brother has always been less of a disappointment to me.”

 _Poor Rin,_ Sebastian thinks, hating them both, _After all that and he’s only **less** of a disappointment._

♫♫♫♫♫

The theatre’s doors are wide open, letting cold air from outside seep the first few feet into the atrium. The heat of the lobby contrasts sharply with ice forming on the puddles on the pavement under the thin drizzle of frosty rain, and. stepping into the lights, Sebastian ducks his head to brush water off his hair. His fingertips tingle with the sudden heat, although his hair feels like ice. He pushes his way through the crowd, trying to find an usher to take his ticket. The lobby is packed with people; old men in suits, old women in long skirts cut to conceal knobby knees. There can’t be more than five people under fifty, counting Sebastian. Underneath the glow and glitter of the crystal chandeliers, it all seems garish and outdated, a scene from some disappeared age. Sebastian thinks of the pure, violent vitality of Colin Campbell’s, and bites the inside of his cheek. Near the far end of the room, there’s a bar serving drinks; its long crystal glasses gleaming in the light. Sebastian finds an usher, hands his ticket over, and picks at the button of his expensive suit. He feels stiff and over-dressed.

Someone is playing piano quietly, unobtrusively, in the background. They’re not very good. Sebastian accepts a champagne flute from a bow-tied usher along with his ticket stub and sips it as he drifts across the room, wishing he had the balls to empty a flask of something stronger into his glass. He’s still aching, and underneath his suit he feels brittle and stale like he’s just waiting to be snapped.

A woman in a peach cocktail dress pushes past Sebastian from behind, heading for the stairs. There’s an art exhibition on the lower floor, long rows of display cases showing off insects trapped in amber. Sebastian’s glass is cold against his finger-tips - although not as cold as the rainwater had been - and just slightly wet. He takes another sip of passably good champagne and lets his hand fall. The rest of the room seems impossibly far away.

The whole scene feels disconnected, disorienting. Sebastian’s head is thick and muzzy, and his thoughts have to push through a viscous fluid to cross his mind. He can’t remember the last time Augustus insisted he attend one of these; Severin was always the show twin, the one that got paraded around in public or at events. Severin’d probably like the passable champagne, Sebastian thinks sullenly. He’d feel comfortable in the suit Augustus had sent. Sebastian – Sebastian feels like a dog dressed up and doing cheap tricks.

He tugs his sleeves straight again, even though they don’t need it, and steps out of the way by the stairs to check his seat.

Maybe he should have bought John a seat, he thinks, staring blindly at the ticket stub. John might have made this easier. John would have smiled at people, nodded his head, looked friendly for the crowds. He might even have convinced Seb to skip out early, to get a pint and play some Horslips at Colin Campbell’s for cheap nostalgia. At the very least Sebastian would have had someone to talk to, instead of standing around like a bad decoration –

_How much more personal d’you think this could be?_

Sebastian takes another long drink and looks down at his ticket stub with renewed determination. Lower floor, Row D – D twenty – Was that twenty-one? Twenty-four? Sebastian squints. In his defense, there’s an ink smear. He rubs his thumb over it, but it stubbornly refuses to budge.

 _I was scouted for long-range shooting by the British Government,_ Sebastian grouses, holding his ticket away from his face like that’ll make it easier. _I have the best eyes in the fucking nation –_

“D-27, dear,” a low voice drawls behind him, Irish accent, arrogant, “I should know. I checked.”

Sebastian whirls.

Jim Moriarty stands there, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other idling a champagne glass. He looks dark as sin and twice as lethal, his black hair slicked back and his deep blue suit practically absorbing the light. The crowd parts like a river around him, pouring to either side without acknowledging his presence. Sebastian wonders how he does it; how he stays invisible and fills up the room floor to ceiling at the same time.

“You,” Sebastian croaks. He coughs, trying to clear his throat, and tries again. “Shouldn’t you be on the run from the police?”

“They never catch me,” Jim assures him, smiling. He steps closer, cornering Sebastian by the stairs. “What did you think? Black keys in his eyes, white keys instead of fingers – a little too obvious?”

“Obvious?” Sebastian repeats automatically, taking a sip of champagne to calm himself.

“Maybe not.” Jim watches him thoughtfully. A tense silence threatens to fall between them. Sebastian looks out over the crowd, watching as pensioners file in to the theatre doors, finding their seats in the dark.

There’s pressure building in his chest. _Jim **always** does this to me_. Sebastian wants to spit. “I should – “

“I haven't been entirely honest,” Jim interrupts abruptly. Sebastian looks back to him. Jim’s worrying his lip in his teeth, thinking. His brows are screwed down over his eyes, giving him an air of concern as he stares at Sebastian. The expression’s probably closer to frustration. “I said I needed someone like you, and all you had to do to stay alive was stay out of my way. I don’t think that’s true anymore.”

“You don’t need a conductor?” Sebastian raises an eyebrow at Jim skeptically.

“No,” Jim replies easily "I think whoever's got their hands on your bridle is doing a rubbish job of breaking you."

“Fuck you.”

“Daddy’s going to ruin you, and where would I be then?”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

Jim laughs, lifts the champagne to his lips and takes a slow, deliberate swallow. Sebastian watches his throat bob, feeling something churn in his gut that isn’t quite hate. “I’m D-28,” Jim tells him, smiling. “Enjoy the performance, darling. I’ve got something _wonderful_ in mind for the second act.”

♫♫♫♫♫

Severin raises his baton and the opening notes of the overture drift slow and lingering out over the audience. It sounds sweet and somehow stale, like florist-shop roses. Sebastian shuts his eyes. He can smell Jim’s cologne, a subtle threat in the darkness. The overture picks up, French horns setting the rhythm with short, proud beats like the start of a march. Jim leans in to the arm rest they share, his exhale soft under the rising swell of sound. Sebastian breathes in sharply, feeling his crisp shirt press against his chest. The heat of Jim’s arm is intense – even through the fabric between them, he feels like a sun.

Sebastian remembers quite clearly how warm Jim’d felt in his lap. How his cold fingers had been twice as shocking after the hot press of his thighs. The one brief moment where Jim’d fucked himself back onto Sebastian’s jeans, like he meant to ride Seb at the kitchen table –

Sebastian yanks his arm sharply back into his lap, and opens his eyes.

Severin’s back sways as he conducts. He has a habit of arching his spine while he keeps time, raising his chin and squaring his shoulders even though the movements of his arms are liquid smooth. Sebastian focuses on the way Severin’s suit wrinkles at the shoulders, trying not to think about Jim in the crisp velvet seat beside him. It’s not as easy as it should be. Sebastian counts his breaths in and out to the time of the music, watching the flick of Severin’s baton with the same cautious eyes as the orchestra. It keeps him sane, at least.

Severin over-exaggerates as he calls the first violin in, drawing his arm up into a great arc like the gesture of a ballerina, complete to the graceful curve of his wrist. He conducts like he’s dancing. Sebastian wonders if anyone in the audience appreciates it: the careful, studied twist of Severin’s hands as he guides his musicians. When the violins are established, Severin turns to the flutes; coaxing them forward with small flicks of his wrist, like he’s tapping his baton on the edge of a bone-china cup. His profile, turned to the light, is cast in gold; tanned skin, blonde hair, stage lights. Sebastian feels his lip curl. It’s the perfect conducting performance – silken and mechanical and effortless, just like they show you in the movies.

Mass-produced perfection. Sebastian wonders if Severin can even hear the nervous tremor in the violins – how they step timidly between the strings of the first cello, achingly precise, like they’re ready to stumble. It’s the delicateness of it that matters, not the technical precision; it should be all breathlessness, all trickles and tumbles and near-misses like a leaf caught in the wind. Severin conducts like he’s above it all. He doesn’t acknowledge the orchestra; his neck is rigid, his chin stuck in that perfect posture like a wind-up doll. Maybe Augustus just carves directions straight into Severin’s brain, and his shoulders are stiff because he’s trying desperately to read them.

Sebastian knows the smile on his face is ugly, but at least no one can see it in the dark.

♫♫♫♫♫

Violetta throws herself into a chair. _“E strano! è strano!”_

“Intermission, _”_ Jim whispers suddenly, against Sebastian’s ear. “Outside the green room. You can manage that, can’t you?”

_“Saria per me sventura un serio amore –“_

His chest is warm, pressed against Sebastian’s shoulder as he twists in his seat. Sebastian shifts uncomfortably in his chair, but he doesn’t dare look around. Jim laughs breathlessly: a quick huff of hot air against Sebastian’s skin. Sebastian can’t help picturing Jim, his eyes shut, leaning in to Sebastian, his suit creasing at the curve of his waist. Jim’s hair would be black in the darkness, the line of his jaw stark white. He nuzzles into Sebastian’s neck. _Get away from me,_ Sebastian thinks.

_“Che risolvi, o turbata anima mia - ”_

Sebastian’s chest is tight and painful, and there’s a restless energy building in his legs. He fights the urge to let his heel jump, forcing himself still. It would only be letting Jim win.

“Why should I?” he murmurs back, turning his head into Jim.

Jim reaches out and pushes Sebastian’s head back towards the performance with two fingers on his chin. Sebastian thinks about resisting, for a moment – lets some pressure build – but in the end, he obeys. It’s a perfect trap, after all. He can’t make a scene here. He can’t afford to disappoint Augustus again.

_“A quell'amor ch'è palpito, Dell'universo intero – ”_

“Dear, dear Sebastian,” Jim sighs. “You’re so lost, aren’t you? But you know I’m worth your while.” Fingers trail down Sebastian’s jaw, brushing lightly over his stubble. Sebastian grits his teeth and keeps his eyes on stage. Violetta is on her knees on the bedspread, hands extended to the audience, pleading. Severin’s blonde hair gleams under the stage lights as he raises both his arms, bringing the orchestra up beneath her aria.

“Would you like a preview?” Jim whispers, low and promising, the snake in the garden. “Do you need to know just how _worth it_ I can be?”

Sebastian doesn’t dare move. On his other side one of the theatre’s top benefactors is fanning herself with a program.

 _What are you going to do?_ he thinks, and bites his lip. _What are you doing to me?_

Jim doesn’t give him any answers. He doesn’t even give Sebastian a warning. Jim licks up Sebastian’s ear with a quick, wet flick and drags the lobe over his teeth, into the obscene heat of his mouth; zero-to-sixty, throttle-wide-open, his hand sliding confidently over Sebastian’s thigh.

Something inside Sebastian goes very still, and he feels his stomach fall out between his feet.

_“Povera donna, sola, abbandonata, in questo popoloso deserto – ”_

It might be fear. Around them, the rustle and creak of two hundred theatre patrons underneath the distant sound of the orchestra is a constant dim roar. The stage-lights illuminate the crowd, catching on Jim’s bone white fingers as they dig into Sebastian’s thigh. Sebastian’s heart hammers against the inside of his throat, trying to tear its way out. If they’re seen – if they’re seen – he’s dead. Augustus will apologize for him in public, then drag him back to the Moran manor to teach him better. This time, Sebastian knows he won’t survive. He can nearly hear Augustus –

_Rutting in the back of the theatre like a horny dog –_

Sebastian shuts his eyes and helplessly lets the adrenaline flood through his body, hot and dizzying. The seat underneath him dips and sways. When he opens his eyes, the stage is far away and indistinct.

Jim’s teeth grind over Sebastian’s earlobe, and Sebastian couldn’t string two thoughts together if he tried. Jim’s mouth is relentless. He licks and sucks and digs his teeth into Sebastian’s skin, working his way from Sebastian’s ear down to the stiff white collar of his shirt.

Sebastian can’t breathe. He doesn’t dare look away from the stage. His muscles tremble with the strain of staying frozen, but he can’t think of any way to escape without making a scene and he’s not even sure if he wants to escape at all. Jim’s clever tongue dismantles him from the top down, each slick movement forcing blood from Sebastian’s brain to his cock. Sebastian stares at the stage, unseeing; the heartbeat in his ears too loud to hear the music. A series of disconnected, visceral images slam into his mind, each one like a punch in the gut. He sees Jim splayed out beneath him, begging, cursing, digging his nails into Sebastian’s back. Jim’s hair black and sopping with sweat. Jim’s wrists purpled and raw from fighting ropes. He sees Jim’s lips stretched wide and around Sebastian’s cock, shiny with spit. He sees Jim in that last moment of abandon, tossing his head back, gasping Sebastian’s name because he can’t help but surrender.

Sebastian clenches his fist in the fabric of his pants, trying to think of something else – anything else. The opera. Severin. Augustus. Like being a teenager again – _think about anything, anything but sex –_

_“… dell'universo intero…”_

Jim tilts his head up, fitting his mouth under Sebastian’s jaw, and Sebastian can’t take it anymore. He feels Jim bite down, the sharp pain over his throat and the wet promise of Jim’s tongue. There isn’t anything left in him but anger and fear and frustrated lust.

“ _Misterioso – altero – “_

Sebastian has to say something now, or he’s lost. He jerks his head away, and spins in his seat to hiss at Jim. Whatever he was about to say dies in his mouth.

_“Corce e deliza al cor – “_

Jim’s eyes glitter in the darkness; pitch black, with sharp bright flecks of light like stars. His teeth gleam. He looks inhuman, predatory, absolutely and completely lethal. Sebastian can’t think anything; his brain is pure, clean white. Jim’s smile twitches. He holds Sebastian’s eyes for a long, deliberate moment before his chin lowers slightly and he shakes his head, warning Sebastian off. It’s arrogant and completely dismissive. Violetta’s singing the last flourishes of her aria, now. Sebastian snarls, hidden by the sound. He opens his mouth to curse, but Jim is already turning, refocusing his attention forward as the first act crashes to an end.

It seems useless to speak.

 _“Sempre libera degg’io - ”_ Violetta sings, choosing sin over love.

Sebastian is aware of a vast rush of silence as the music ends, before the audience erupts into applause. Jim smiles, clapping politely. He looks perfectly respectable, untouched, as if he’s done nothing more than turn to whisper something in Sebastian’s ear. Around them, applause is a great loud roar like the change of tides. Sebastian shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to fight an arousal that burns at every inch of his skin. Jim watches the closing curtains unperturbed, Sebastian’s sweat drying on his lips.

♫♫♫♫♫

Sebastian rounds the corner past the art exhibit and sees Jim’s lithe back disappearing down the hall. He hops a step and starts to jog, feeling foolish.

Behind him a massive herd of people shuffles into queues for refreshments or the bathroom – old women fanning themselves with programs, tight knots of chattering men standing out against the tide. Sebastian ducks a woman in a fur coat the colour of dark coffee, losing sight of Jim for a moment. Then he catches a glimpse of dark hair near the far windows, black-on-black against the starless sky. Sebastian grits his teeth.

He tries not to think about what he’s doing, why he’s following Jim; even though he knows the consequences. Sebastian’s not even really sure he _likes_ Jim. Jim worries him; in all the different senses of the term, like a dog with a bone, like a gnawing ache of anxiety deep in Sebastian’s stomach.

Jim turns another corner, winding them further from the crowd of people, and Sebastian slows to a brisk walk. Sound dies away quickly in the tight corridors; like the ugly carpet and indiscriminate wallpaper are sucking it up. Two turns away from the main lobby and the crowd is nothing but a low murmur behind him. Sebastian glances nervously over his shoulder: checking to make sure the rest of the theatre hasn’t disappeared.

“Sebastian,” a low voice calls, from down the hall.

Sebastian picks up his pace again.

Jim’s waiting for him around the next corner, his hands shoved in his suit pockets and his head tilted back to meet Sebastian’s eyes. The green room door behind him is unmarked, but through it Sebastian can hear someone dimly shouting – something about wigs, or lines, something gone missing that’s desperately needed.

Jim gestures with his chin towards a small stair in the corner. “We can be alone up there,” he says. “Have a bit of a laugh…”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

“You know what we’re doing.” Jim shakes his head at Sebastian, with a look of annoyance like Sebastian’s being purposefully obstinate.

Sebastian lowers his chin, bracing himself against Jim like he would against a storm. “Tell me what this is,” he growls.

Jim laughs.

He turns neatly on his heel, away from Sebastian, and ambles towards the stairs. “Come along!”

Jim’s voice sing-songs up and down, his Irish lilt even more pronounced than usual. Sebastian debates it, for a moment: debates not going, telling Jim to fuck off and heading for the nearest exit. He could tell Augustus the first half had been enough – that he’d seen how well Severin conducted, and known what he had to change –

Jim’s heels click neatly on the stairs. Sebastian has to take them two at a time to catch up. On the second floor it’s even quieter than it had been in the back hallways, a deep unbreakable silence like the hush of a funeral home. The staircase opens into a small, brightly lit room filled with stage furniture. There’s an ottoman that looks like it came from a pop-culture Versailles, an old rough-carved desk with brightly painted knobs. A towering grandfather clock looms in the back corner, threatening to fall.

Jim grabs a massive, ungainly armchair and starts to drag it forward over the floor. “Don’t just stand there,” he shoots over his shoulder at Sebastian, “There’s nothing worse than _dumb and pretty_.”

Sebastian crosses his arms over his chest, refusing to move from the doorway. “Are you going to explain what you’re doing?”

Jim sighs. He manages to get the armchair forward enough to free it from the rest of the disused furniture and collapses into it, wriggling around to get comfortable. Sebastian watches him narrowly. Jim kicks his shoes off, leans back in his seat and lets his legs loll obscenely open. The soft backstage light makes the shadows on his face soft and velvety, lingering enticingly around the corners of his mouth. He licks his lips, watching Sebastian, a quick flick of pink tongue that makes Sebastian’s stomach drop.

Sebastian grits his teeth anyways, refusing to let it show. “So you’re expecting – What? Quick blowjob in the back of the theatre?”

Jim grins. “All very highschool, isn’t it?” he drawls. “Promise you can wear my class ring afterwards.”

“Not that kind of girl,” Sebastian snaps back. He doesn’t move from where he’s standing. Jim runs a hand through his hair, considering Sebastian; then he holds out his hand in silence. His fingers curl slightly upwards, his hands smooth except for the callouses on his finger-tips. Sebastian wets his lips. Down the stairs the green room door opens, and Sebastian can hear people moving, talking: discussing the first act. Jim watches Sebastian steadily, eyes on his face, hand extended between them. It feels like a test.

Slowly, Sebastian uncrosses his arms. It feels like surrender. He steps forward - stomach roiling - trying to ignore the voice in the back of his mind telling him to flee. Jim curls cold fingers around his wrist and draws him gently forward with a soft hum of approval like praise. There’s static going in Sebastian’s brain. He breathes out shallowly to center himself, and lets Jim pull him forward. He steps between Jim’s legs, in close, until he can smell Jim’s skin and the stiff wool of his suit. It makes it hard to think straight, for a moment. _Pavlovian response,_ Sebastian thinks wildly. Like the smell of Jim’s skin makes his heartrate pick up automatically. Jim lets go of his wrist. He pushes down on Sebastian’s shoulder, softly, a request rather than a command.

Sebastian drops to his knees instantly.

He couldn’t say _why_ if you paid him. There doesn’t seem to _be_ a _why._ There’s just Jim. The dull thunk of Sebastian’s knees hitting the carpet seems to echo in the empty hall, but Jim pays no attention. He leans forward over Sebastian with a mild expression of regret on his face, like Sebastian is a broken thing he doesn’t think he’ll be able to fix. Even through fabric, his fingers are cold.

It makes Sebastian burn somewhere high in the top of his throat; that old self-hatred, so hot he can’t swallow. Of course Jim would look at him like that – like a kicked puppy. What else is Sebastian? Just another girl with daddy issues, easy to exploit.

Sebastian thinks he could live with exploitation, if only Jim would stop making him like it. If only his heart wasn’t pounding. Jim’s head tilts to the side, considering him, and Sebastian shuts his eyes. He’d rather not read Jim’s expression. He’d rather not know what Jim finds inside him.

It’s worse in the darkness behind his eyelids; when he can’t see what Jim’s doing. The air on his skin is warm, and anticipation and fear are wound so tight in Sebastian’s stomach that there’s not even room for arousal.

“Now, now,” Jim murmurs. He traces Sebastian’s brow with a finger. “That won’t do.”

When Sebastian opens his eyes, Jim’s face is wiped clean again; completely expressionless. His eyes might as well be windows into an empty house. “I didn’t let you lie, last time,” Jim tells Sebastian, “And I won’t let you hide now.” He smooths a hand over Sebastian’s hair, pushing it back into place, and leaves his hand on the back of Sebastian’s neck.

Sebastian realizes his lungs are burning, and takes a short, sharp breath.

Jim’s hand cradles the back of his neck. Jim’s eyes are narrowed, focused on Sebastian with a thin and penetrating concentration. “I’m going to tell you exactly how I plan to murder someone,” Jim says, firmly, so Sebastian can’t run from it. “You’re going to suck me off while you hear all about my plans to slit his throat. No – no – stop that, Sebastian, don’t move away. Don’t run from this.” He curls his hand into a fist in the back of Sebastian’s hair and pulls his head backwards, until Sebastian’s neck is bent so far he can barely breathe. He stops trying to stand. “Am I wrong?” Jim asks. He leans forward until Sebastian can feel the heat of his breath. Jim sighs softly against Sebastian’s lips. “Isn’t that what you want? I will own you. Every inch of you. I won’t let you have a single thought of your own.” It should come off as a threat. It doesn’t. Sebastian jerks his head again, but he’s well and truly stuck. “I’m offering you oblivion,” Jim croons, “I can make it all _stop,_ Sebastian. Don’t _fight_ me.”

He sucks Sebastian’s bottom lip in over his teeth and worries it, not enough to swell but enough for sharp pain to flood Sebastian’s mouth. Jim’s tongue follows his teeth, tracing slow, hot spirals that do nothing to soothe the pain.

“I thought I could leave you to him,” Jim murmurs into Sebastian’s mouth, “But I’m sorry, that’s not going to happen…”

Sebastian tries to speak, but all that comes out is an inarticulate moan. Jim captures it, leaning forward to kiss Sebastian: open mouth, hot breath, his tongue slick and devouring. He demands everything of Sebastian and Sebastian, helpless, falls upwards into his mouth.

When they finally come up for air Sebastian doesn’t have a thought left in his head. Jim lets go of him, deliberately, trailing his fingers through the strands of his hair as he leans backwards. “Now, Sebastian,” he says calmly. His lips are swollen and flushed from kissing, red as sin in his pale face.

Sebastian shuffles himself forward awkwardly on his knees, and reaches out for the button of Jim’s trousers. Underneath the rough wool, Jim’s half-hard already, his cock pressing up against Sebastian’s fingers. Sebastian can’t help but imagine what it’ll feel like on his tongue; heavy, hot, the salt taste of Jim’s skin pressing down into his throat –

Sebastian licks his lips, running the bottom one over his teeth to center himself.

“It’s the harpist,” Jim whispers. Sebastian looks up. Jim’s head is lolled backwards, the nape of his neck following the curve at the top of the chair. His eyes are open, staring directly up at the ceiling, and his lips are parted. He looks like he’s holding on to control with both hands.

Sebastian undoes the button of Jim’s trouser, the zip, and shoves Jim’s pants and trousers down around his thighs. Jim lifts up his hips just enough to help. He’s even paler underneath his clothes, a stark white, like bone. His cock is flushed, lying gracelessly and half-flaccid on his hip. This is the part where most men look awkward, Sebastian knows. Vulnerable. Half-dressed and breathless with lust – this is the part most men look like idiots.

“Her timing is off,” Jim continues, talking softly to the ceiling. He doesn’t deign to sound vulnerable in the slightest. Sebastian wraps a hand around his cock and is rewarded with the tiniest hitch of Jim’s breathing, a small break in rhythm like the pause before a new phrase. “She’s clumsy. But _why_ doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s _how._ ” Sebastian strokes Jim slow, feeling Jim’s cock swell and harden under his fingers. He’s dimly aware that Jim is stroking his hair again.

“I’m going to use harp-strings,” Jim comments, casually, the way you’d remark about weekend plans. Sebastian leans forward, and runs the tip of his tongue up Jim’s shaft to his head. Jim’s breathing remains slow and even, but his fingers twitch in Sebastian’s hair like he’s tempted to pull. “Garrote-wire.” Jim breathes. “Have you killed someone with garrote-wire, Sebastian?” Jim’s voice is deep and rough, like gravel and velvet. It spirals through Sebastian’s chest to his stomach, heating him from the inside out. Sebastian flattens his tongue, shuts his eyes, and leans forward to suck the head of Jim’s cock into his mouth.

Jim moans encouragingly, canting his hips up into Sebastian’s mouth. He’s silent, for a moment, as Sebastian works his way deeper. The back-of-the-theatre quiet makes everything seem closer, more intimate. Sebastian doesn’t want to rush. He swallows Jim slowly, inch by inch, savouring the salt on his tongue and the sound of Jim’s breathing. It seems like the only sound in the world. Sebastian licks slow circles around the head of Jim’s cock, holding the first inch in his mouth without sucking, and strokes lazily with his hand at the base. Jim’s so hard in his mouth the skin of his cock is like a thin sheathe of silk over stone. Sebastian’s pressing against his own pants – he can feel the hard metal of his zipper start to dig against his skin.

“It’s _sly_ ,” Jim breathes. Sebastian had almost forgotten he was speaking. “Very little chance of anyone overhearing. It’ll just be me and the sound of her breathing – “ Sebastian flicks his tongue back and forth over the sensitive skin at the base of Jim’s head, and he has to interrupt himself to take a quick, hissing breath like water turning in to steam. “ – And mine. I’ll be panting in her ear, Sebastian.” Jim’s hands in Sebastian’s hair fold into fists again, and he pulls – guiding Sebastian deeper. Sebastian feels tears bead in the corners of his eyes as Jim forces his jaw open wider, thrusting his cock through to the back of Sebastian’s mouth. Sebastian’s lips slide down until they bump wetly against the knuckles of his hand. Jim’s breathing is unsteady, now, loud and ragged. “Much like I’m panting now,” he growls, a deep rumbling sound like the purr of a lion. Sebastian’s stomach churns, hollow and hungry. He twists his head against Jim’s grip, finding a position that lets Jim push deeper without choking him. Jim breaks off his monologue to moan again, losing his composure as his cock bumps against Sebastian’s throat.

Sebastian is so hard it’s starting to hurt: a desperate, demanding pressure between his legs. He reaches down to adjust himself, but before he gets more than a quick press of his palm against his shaft, Jim pulls painfully at his hair.

“No, Sebastian,” Jim murmurs, “Not yet. Not yet. Keep – “ Sebastian flicks his tongue again, quick brushing movements over Jim’s vein as he thrusts into Sebastian’s mouth. “Ah! Like that.” Sebastian can taste precum as he lifts his head up, right on the back of his tongue before Jim plunges deeper again. He tries not to picture Jim with garrote-wire wrapped around his fists, one foot on the back of the harpist. He tries not to picture Jim’s hair askew, struggling with the harpist – _Jim on the table, begging to be fucked –_ Jim’s cheeks flushed as he pants, putting his weight into the wire – _Jim bending me over the side of the bed, one hand braced between my shoulders –_ Jim with his eyes gone lethal and inhuman, alight with the sheer insane rush of murder – _Sebastian, please –_

_Please –_

“It gets you off, doesn’t it?” Jim gloats, between his ragged gasps. “Oh, Christ, you're everything they said you'd be. You’d fuck me afterwards. Blood still on my hands – “ Sebastian growls as best he can with Jim’s cock in his mouth and Jim laughs breathlessly. He gets a better grip on Sebastian’s hair and starts to truly use him, fucking his mouth in quick hard strokes. Sebastian tries to stop him, use the hand still on Jim’s cock to control depth, but he can’t get more than a half-inch of relief. Jim drags him forward hard, jamming his cock so deep into Sebastian’s throat that Sebastian thinks he’ll scream with the pain in his jaw. He writhes, trying to pull away, but he can’t. And it’s that – the helplessness of it, the sheer implacability of Jim’s control – that makes him moan. That makes his spine feel cold and his stomach feel like a sun. There’re tears and saliva wet on his face, pushed out of his eyes and his mouth with each thrust forward, but it doesn’t matter. It hurts, he’s choking, he feels like Jim’s going to rub him raw –

“Over her _corpse,_ ” Jim hisses. Sebastian gags around his cock. “With the wire wrapped around _your_ throat, Sebastian, are you _picturing it?_ ”

Sebastian can’t take it anymore. He pulls his hand from Jim’s cock and fumbles his pants open, letting Jim thrust and roll and fuck into his throat without any illusion of moderation. Jim takes to it gleefully, jamming Sebastian down until his nose is pressed painfully against Jim’s bones. The smell of Jim is thick in Sebastian’s mind, twisted up with sweat and split and slick. Sebastian doesn’t care. He couldn’t if he tried. He gets a hand wrapped around his own cock and fists himself as tight and hard as he dares, because the only other alternative is letting the pressure in him build, and he thinks he’ll die of that.

Jim’s thrusts go unsteady quick. His voice is a fucked-out ruin, a deep purr that sounds utterly debauched. “Choke you out as I fucked you – “ he moans, his hips stuttering upwards into Sebastian’s mouth, “Make you beg me – to let you come – before I kill you – “

It’s too much for both of them.

Sebastian feels Jim’s cock jerk in his mouth a heartbeat before his own orgasm crashes over him, and he spills himself helplessly onto the floor at Jim’s feet.

♫♫♫♫♫

“Wait.” Jim pulls Sebastian aside, taking cover in the crowd pouring out from the theatre doors. He reaches up and straightens Sebastian’s tie, fixing the knot.

Sebastian stares down at Jim, not even bothering with _why_ or _what was that_ or _did you mean half what you said._ He doesn’t have room for the questions right now. His brain is taken up with a loud, shrill sound like a ringing alarm, and he can’t think past it. The crowd moves past them, unawares, even though the smell of Jim’s skin still clings to Sebastian’s lips.

Jim finishes smoothing down Sebastian’s tie and pauses with his fingers still brushing Sebastian’s chest. “Don’t worry so much,” he murmurs, smiling up at Sebastian. His lips are still flushed, although it’s not deep enough to look vulgar. “It’s not like you’re making any of the calls here.”

From Jim, that counts as kindness. Sebastian licks his lips and half-shakes his head, trying to force a thought through the sound in his mind.

_Can I see you again?_

_Are you serious about this?_

“Sebastian!”                                                                                                                                        

Sebastian shuts his eyes. Jim’s lips quirk, turning his smile back from kindness to cruelty again. “Dear Severin,” Jim muses. “Pity Daddy did a better job on that one. I would have liked the matched set.” He taps Sebastian’s chest with his fingertips, making Sebastian open his eyes. Sebastian can hear Severin pushing through the crowd behind him, and opens his mouth to ask at least one of his questions before it’s too late. Jim glances over Sebastian’s shoulder. “Shh,” he says, forestalling anything Sebastian might have said. “No time.” He rocks on his heels, staring at Sebastian. His expression is absolutely inscrutable. “Play nice.”

“Jim – “

“Sebastian,” Severin says cautiously, “I… didn’t know you’d be attending.”

Sebastian resists the urge to turn. Once he does Jim will disappear again, back into the shadows and darkness and the intimate silence at the back of the theatre. He holds Jim’s eyes intently, willing Jim to stay.

_I want to go with you._

“ _Sebastian,_ ” Severin repeats, and puts a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder.

_Please take me with you._

Sebastian says nothing. Jim is already turning away.


	7. Chapter 7

Severin tucks his hands in the pockets of his long wool coat. “I assume Father insisted,” he says. He doesn’t sound like he’s just come off one of the most successful performances his Opera’s ever managed. His voice is tired and raspy. Sebastian’s spoiled his plans again: shown up somewhere Severin thinks he shouldn’t be. Sebastian feels his teeth start to grind together and consciously stops it.

“Augustus thought I could learn something,” he says.

Severin has slicked his hair tight back since the performance mussed it up, not a strand out of place. He licks his lips. “Did you – ”

Sebastian swallows down a sharp spike of frustration. “I _know_ how to conduct, Severin.”

“Of course.” Severin sounds so cold he comes off sarcastic. Sebastian wishes dearly it was kosher to start fistfights in the lobby. “I was simply – ”

“Mr. Moran?” a throaty voice interrupts.

Sebastian and Severin turn in unison. The woman interrupting them has white hair in tight pincurls, a thick string of diamonds hanging around her neck. Her eyes are caked in makeup that must have been in fashion fifty years ago. When she beams at Severin, her teeth are yellow. Sebastian recognizes her from one of Augustus’s functions – another generous theatre donor. Severin’s lips are already curving in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Sebastian fights the urge to sigh heavily.

Severin reaches out and takes her proffered hand. “Yes, Ms. Bass. Lovely to see you. I trust you enjoyed the performance?”

She clasps his hand between two wrinkled palms, the sapphires on her fingers sparkling in the theatre lights. “Yes, bless you. I haven’t seen such a wonderful _Trav_ since Augustus himself was conducting. You must pass on my compliments…”

“Of course. I am glad you enjoyed it. I hope you’ll be coming out all season.”

Ms. Bass smiles back at him with all the subtlety of a truck smashing through a brick wall. “How could I say no?” she simpers. Sebastian runs his tongue over his teeth and stays silent with an effort. When Severin releases her she giggles like a girl and turns back to the crowd. Severin watches her go, his face cool and expressionless.

“At least Augustus doesn’t insist you fuck them,” Sebastian comments venomously.

He can feel Severin’s eyes flick to him, cold and hateful. “Don’t be vulgar. She’s a valuable patron.”

“And with some lube and hard work…”

“ _Sebastian!”_ Severin’s snarl is nearly loud enough to carry.

A few faces turn towards them from the crowd, but Severin’s mask has already slid back down over his face and they turn away, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Severin’s hands betray him, curled into tight fists, his tendons standing out sharp and strained. Sebastian feels his chin tuck down towards his chest, defensively, like bracing for a blow.

“Don’t worry,” he snarks at Severin, unable to resist the urge to be petty, “I know I’m unfit for polite company.”

Severin gives him a sharp look. “Acting like this, of course you are.” There’s a warning note in his tone, familiar and frightening.

Sebastian refuses to give in. He sucks in a harsh breath of over-heated air and stands his ground. “What are you going to do about it?” Severin just gives him a long, level look so reminiscent of their father that Sebastian fights the urge to growl. Severin looks like a bad stone statute of Augustus: blank, unyielding, without an inch of softness in him. _I can be steel,_ Sebastian tells himself. _I can be harder than stone._ They glare at each other in silence – Sebastian resentful, Severin impassive – and Sebastian feels nothing but a dizzying rush of defiance.

“I have a reception dinner to attend,” Severin says finally. Sebastian feels a petty triumph at forcing him to speak first. “Can I trust you to get home without requiring my attention?”

“Oh, absolutely, _sir._ ” Sebastian tells him flippantly. He lifts his fingers to his temple in a rough mockery of a salute. “I’ll tell Augustus you discharged your duty _wonderfully._ He couldn’t have done it better himself.”

Severin gives Sebastian another look, but Sebastian refuses to feel ashamed of himself. “Father _will_ call on me again,” Severin tells him quietly. “You _will_ feel the consequences of this.”

If it’s meant to be a threat, it falls flat. “Better get your gloves cleaned,” Sebastian counters. “Think they’re still dirty from last time.”

Severin’s face gives away nothing. “I don’t enjoy correcting you, Sebastian,” he sighs. “Don’t make it necessary.”

Sebastian doesn’t give Severin the satisfaction of responding before he turns and starts pushing his way to the doors.

_I don’t care if you enjoy it, I don’t, I don’t care I don’t care **I don’t care** – _

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials. The connection clicks through almost instantly.

“John?” Sebastian asks, knowing his voice is rough and not caring enough to hide it, “Where are you right now?”

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

Colin Campbell’s is twice as packed as the theatre had been, and half as clean. Sebastian pushes past a girl with cotton-candy hair and an infected eyebrow piercing, heading towards John at the edge of the stage. John’s chatting with the house drummer – blue hair, heavy tattoos, skirt riding high on her waist. He’s got a beer in his hand, and she’s nursing a cocktail glass of something thick and viscously golden. Sebastian sets his violin down leaning against the edge of the stage beside them.

“ – I just can’t take straight men. No offense,” the drummer finishes, shouting in John’s ear over the crowd and the music. Her drink sloshes against the side of its cocktail glass.

“Not straight!” John yells.

Sebastian isn’t sure if the woman hears it. She doesn’t say anything else, just tosses the rest of her drink back and turns to Sebastian. “Hey – you’re the fiddle-player, right?” She asks, with a wide smile that’s got more than a little bit of liquid cheer in it. Black lipstick, jestrum piercing, labret stud. If you kissed her, she’d taste like steel. “I’ve seen you up here loads of times.”

There’s no use burning bridges in the one place he actually likes. Sebastian swallows down the hot frustration in his throat and sticks out a hand. “Sebastian Moran,” he yells. “You’ve played with me, too.”

She looks delighted. “Val Nikkles! Wasn’t sure you’d remember.” Her palm is cold, wet from her glass.

“ ‘Course I do.” Sebastian releases her.

Val looks expectantly to the side, and Sebastian follows her eyes slowly to John. John is smiling, so brightly the rest of the bar seems dimmer. Sebastian can’t help turning his shoulders, squaring their bodies off together, and notices John mirroring the motion. John’s wearing a black long-sleeve over his beat-up jeans, just small enough that his shirt clings to the muscles of his chest. When he breathes, Sebastian can see the fabric pull. There’s a threadbare spot near the collar, where the stitching’s started to pick out. Sebastian feels his expression slide into something a little more wolfish, and John laughs.

“Now I’m going to say I’m _definitely_ not straight,” he shouts. “Did you really miss me that much?”

Sebastian wishes it was that simple.

He jerks one shoulder and looks away, not wanting John to read his expression. “Bad night. Could use some music.” Sebastian’s voice comes out tight, but he hopes under the noise of the bar it just sounds like strain from yelling. He coughs, roughly, rubbing his knuckles over his upper lip to cover his face. There’s enough of a crowd for them to get going, at least. The bartender’s pouring an acid-green drink for a dark-haired man in a black wool coat. For a heart stopping moment Sebastian thinks that it might be Jim.

 _No. Not here. Not again._ Sebastian takes a long, slow breath; sucking cool air in between his teeth and letting it out slow. _Don’t go there._

The man at the bar turns his face to the side. His nose is aquiline, bent sharply to the right where it’s been broken and never set.

Sebastian nearly jumps into the booth beside them when John puts a hand on his arm. “Jesus!” he yelps.

John snatches his fingers back quickly, his brows already knitting down over his eyes. There’s a UV light somewhere up on the stage, and when John opens his mouth, the white of his teeth glints purple. “Sorry,” he says, with a confused twist to his voice. “I was just wondering if you had something in mind.”

The hair on Sebastian’s arms is standing at awkward attention where John touched him. He rubs at himself guiltily, trying to set it back down. There’s a song that’s been bumping around in his head ever since Augustus called, but Sebastian finds his tongue thick when he goes to say it. There’s something vulnerable, there. Like if John reads too far into the lyrics he’ll x-ray right through Sebastian.

“Kind of fancy the Murphy’s version of _Vengeance,_ ” Sebastian manages finally, trying to sound casual.

John makes a face. “Not really my style.” He blinks, his eyebrows lowering in the start of a frown. Sebastian can almost see the connections being drawn in John’s mind. His concern is painfully obvious on his face. John starts to speak, shuts his mouth, and takes a quick gulp of his beer like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something more.

Sebastian watches John lick beer foam from his lips. Inside Seb’s head is a mess like a dubstep drop, a huge wall of sound echoing and warping John’s voice. _Why’d you want to play that, Sebastian? Anything you’d like to tell me? What do you want that song for? You need a little vengeance, Sebastian? Cause you’re fucked up? You’re broken? You’re dying? What’s going on, Sebastian? Why are you doing this to yourself?_

Sebastian fights the urge to push his way through the crowd and disappear without saying another word. He’s dimly aware that what he’s experiencing is running into _panic_ territory; but if there’s one thing Sebastian’s gotten good at, it’s ignoring the parts of his mind he doesn’t like. He shrugs one shoulder at John, not feeling up to insisting on anything. “If you don’t know it – “

Val comes back into the conversation abruptly, with a finger in the center of Sebastian’s chest. Her empty glass curled up in the rest of her hand. “ _You_ sing it,” she shouts, over the tinny sound of canned music.

Sebastian makes a face at her, trying to ignore the storm of noise in his head. “I can’t sing,” he says. John’s watching him. He can feel it, the heat of John staring, worse than stage lights on his face. Sebastian doesn’t even have a stomach anymore; he just has a big aching knot like a cancer, eating him inside-out.

_Why’re you so fucked up, Sebastian? What the fuck is wrong with you? Why do you **always** do this?_

Sebastian shuts his eyes and breathes out, slowly, but it doesn’t seem to help. Inside his head, he’s still drowning in sound.

“- like they’ve ever had a lead that could sing anyways,” Val says triumphantly, somewhere far away. She pokes Sebastian in the chest again and it brings him crashing back to the bar; out of the roar in his head back to awkward reality. He swats her hand away angrily, lacking the mental capacity to be patient.

“Even if I could sing, which I can’t, I can’t _play_ and sing. _Leave_ it,” he snaps.

Maybe it doesn’t get his point across, because Val continues blithely. “I can play guitar – we’ll do without drums – “

“I said _LEAVE IT!”_ Sebastian’s voice comes out louder than he means it to be, rough on the edge like serration. He jerks himself away from Val, squaring himself defensively off against her. It makes him stumble sideways, knocking against John, and he bangs his elbow badly on the wall of the booth. John makes a soft sound, only audible in the close space between them. It sounds like pain. Sebastian doesn’t give a fuck. He’s breathing heavily and doesn’t know why. He feels like he’s going crazy – like even the smallest thing could push him over the edge. His teeth grind together as he bares them, his hands balling into fists.

In a small corner of Sebastian’s brain the part of him that Augustus drilled to a mercilessly high standard thinks, _an adrenal response triggered by panic – anxiety disorder, perhaps. Aggression would be typical in a military subject with PTSD –_

Sebastian immediately wants to peel his own skin off and crawl out of it. Val curls her hand back to her chest, still clutching the empty glass, her face twisted up in bewilderment. She stares at him with such utter incomprehension that it makes the bar seem quiet as an indrawn breath. _Like kicking a puppy._ Sebastian feels sick with guilt; thick, oozing liquid pooling in his stomach. He’d look at John, but he doesn’t dare. He doesn’t want to see what’s written over John’s face. _I don’t have cancer, I **am** cancer. I should just go home. I should stop this before it gets worse. I’m making an idiot out of myself, again, **always –**_

He tries not to think of Jim.

“Sorry,” Sebastian grits out, before John can jump in. “Sorry. I appreciate it, it just… it wouldn’t work out. Look, maybe tonight isn’t –”

“I can do it,” John interrupts, suddenly. “I know it. I mean – it’s just not my style.” He makes an apologetic face and shrugs one shoulder, turning his shoulders to subtly insert himself between Sebastian and Val. “If that’s what you want to do, we’ll do it,” he adds, softer, for Sebastian’s ears alone.

Sebastian’s lips are chapped, pulling at his tongue roughly as he licks them. “I just need to do _something_ ,” he replies. He catches a shred of dead skin between his teeth and pulls it, until a bright spark of pain flares into his mouth.

John’s eyes search Sebastian’s. In the dark of the bar his irises are black, deep and inscrutable and soft. Sebastian thinks of Jim, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. He doesn’t want that connection – he doesn’t want John’s shoulders bent under the weight of bearing Jim’s shadow. The salt of Sebastian’s saliva seeps into the small wound on his lip, making it sting.

“Sebastian,” John says, twisting his head a bit to catch Seb’s eyes again. “Tell me you’re alright.”

“I’m fine,” Seb growls roughly. He rubs a hand through his hair, feeling the grease of it on his fingers. “Right. No. I’m – I’m _dealing._ ”

“Are you?”

“That’s our cue,” Val interrupts, waving at someone back behind the bar. She looks between John and Sebastian expectantly. “Well? I thought we were playing. Jesus, you two are melodramatic. Are you – “

“ _Yes._ ” Sebastian grits out. “Just – get me a beer, would you?” He peels a couple pounds out of a wad in his pocket and hands them to her. “Whatever’s on tap.”

Val sniffs. “Okay, princess.”

“We’re going to have this out afterwards,” John warns Sebastian. “Don’t think I’m letting it go.”

Sebastian rubs his thumb along his fingernail, pressing in to feel the sting.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

On the stage things aren’t much better.

Sebastian pulls his shirt over his head for the familiar wolf-whistles, and takes up a spot near the front of the stage where there’s a secondary mike and enough floor room for him to stomp around between cables. It’s hot enough to be baking, and Sebastian feels uncomfortably breathless – like the sheer weight of the air might be enough to choke him.

On the other side of the stage John’s pushing his sleeves up to his elbows, microphone in one hand and a thoughtful frown on his face. He’s got _worried about Sebastian_ plastered all over them. Sebastian can’t deal with that – not now, maybe not ever.

He waves two fingers over his head, and the crowd roars with the first tap of Val’s drumstick down onto the snare.

She counts them off and Seb comes in on the rhythm guitar line with his fiddle, letting it purr the notes out deep and vibrating. Out in the crowd an expectant quiet falls, Collin Campbell’s waiting to see what they’ll do. Sebastian glances back over his shoulder, catching Val’s eyes. She grins. Her blue hair’s fallen over her forehead, jagged lines like scars.

When she nods Sebastian cuts the melody in sharp and high, squealing out over the crowd like the wrath of god. It’s overbearingly loud and almost painfully piercing, balancing the line between music and noise. Val takes over the rhythm with a bass drum and tom, pounding it out so low it vibrates Sebastian through to his bones. His hips start to move, liquid figure-eights that roll his shoulders in contrast to the harsh bite of his fiddle. He can feel the resistance of his strings on his bow as he saws it down, screeching and yowling like a cat in heat, screaming defiance to that rolling, thundering beat. Sebastian turns back to the crowd, catching the barest glimpse of John as he does – blonde hair gleaming, lips wet and open, eyes shut to concentrate on the sound. His toes’ tapping on the stage. It smells like ozone and spilled beer. Outside the thin circle of light on the stage it’s pitch-black except for the gleam of bottles at the bar, the crowd faceless and indistinguishable from the shadows.

Sebastian saws off another screeching note and someone in the front row howls back at him – half protest, half challenge. Sebastian grins, breathless, blows a kiss as he reels off the next lick, giving up on the written chords to add his own flourishes. Val’s fading off, now, pulling her hits so the drums fade into the background, and out of the corner of his eye Sebastian can see John stepping forward, raising the mike. He pulls back off the melody, giving John space in the sound.

For a moment he forgets why he wanted this – why he was so desperate, why he needed this song. It seems less important, now. He feels less raw and open.

Sebastian can hear the soft hum as John’s mike whines, the circuits fuzzed with condensation, then John’s voice fills the air; rough and a little-off key, like he’s been crying or screaming his voice away. “ _Well, I remember the times you put me down on the floor –_ ” he sings, “ _Spreading it around like your cheap little whore –_ ”

Then something hot and clawing rips its way up Sebastian’s throat, and he feels a rush of anger and frustration so mindless it’s almost a release. It all comes back: every moment on his knees in front of Augustus, waiting for the blows.

“ _But now you've finished with your fancy man –a skinny little runt from Birmingham –_ ”

It’s there. Everything. Sebastian echoes John’s words on the Strad, in time to emphasize like they’re both throwing punches, but he’s so light-headed he can hardly hear the tune. John’s t-shirt is damp with sweat on his back, and Sebastian feels the same moisture trickling down his bare spine.

He wonders, if he told John, if John might understand. _Severin. **Augustus.**_ The big empty house and the first time Da’d beat Sebastian to his knees on the priceless Turkish carpets –

Sebastian manages to keep the melody, somehow, and thanks god it’s not hard fingering.

“ _I want vengeance and I want it now – I want vengeance, gonna get it somehow –_ ”

Sebastian steps forward, finds the secondary mike, and takes his violin from his shoulder long enough to sing the chorus, swinging his hips with the same motion John gives to his shoulders, like they’re two bodies moved by the same mind. “ _I'm gonna hit him – I'm gonna kill him – I'm gonna really make him pay for what he's done –_ ” For a heartbeat their voices are the only sound in the bar, over Val’s drums, and Sebastian thinks his might be breaking. Then someone cheers, loud and raucous, and the room fills up with applause. “ _I’m gonna hit him – I’m going to kill him –_ ”Sebastian hauls himself back from the mike and puts his violin back to his shoulder. He’s breathing harder than he should be, and the sound in his ears is fuzzy and distorted.

Not for the first time, Sebastian wonders if this is what dying feels like; if he’s losing it, and just doesn’t know yet that it’s terminal.

“ _So shut your mouth and lay on the bed –_ “ John is singing, somewhere far away. “ _And when I'm finished with you, I'm gonna break his head –_ ”

Sebastian feels his hips weave a slow figure eight down until his thighs touch his heels, until he’s on his knees on the stage with his back arched up and the taut muscles of his chest put on display. The strings pull on his fingers and the bow saws against the strings, and from that he knows he’s still playing but he can’t seem to hear the sound.

John’s fingers tangle through his hair. _I want vengeance and I want it now – I want vengeance gotta get it somehow –_ Sebastian would turn his head into the contact, but he can’t. He wrenches the last notes of the song off even though it costs him, something deep in his stomach hurting like the end of the world.

Outside their small circle of light the bar is applauding – people laughing, cheering, raising their drinks to a show Sebastian is increasingly starting to see as a farce.

He feels his violin drop from his chin, and then John is pulling him up and into a fierce, devouring kiss. Sebastian feels himself slack in John’s arms, opens his mouth for John to take. There’s something grimy and foul between his blood and his skin, coating the inside of him somewhere he’ll never get clean.

Sebastian drops his bow, reaches up, and grips John hard by the elbow. “Take me home,” he says, and when John tries to speak Sebastian talks over him. “Take me home, John, _now._ ”

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

They haven’t taken two steps onto the street when the door opens and swings shut behind them. A crowd of chavs stumbles out onto the pavement, rowdy and smelling of spilt beer. There’s a thin thread of nicotine on the air as one of them lights up.

“Oi! Ey, you!”

Sebastian feels the shout prickle the hairs on the back of his neck, and switches his violin case between his hands so he can sling his arm protectively around John’s shoulders. A car goes by, kicking up white noise from the puddles on the road. John tries to catch his eye, but Sebastian just ducks his head and picks up his pace.

“Eyyyy, cocksucker!”

Sebastian can hear the thud of trainers on the sidewalk behind him. “Spot a cab anywhere round here?” he murmurs to John, half distracted by keeping track of the men behind them. John shakes his head, the hairs on the back of his neck pulling at the sleeve of Seb’s jacket.

“Don’t be like that, gay boy, I just wanted a go at your girlfriend.”

Sebastian risks shooting a look over his shoulder. One of the men behind them, wearing white trainers and a neck tattoo that proudly proclaims EMMA-FOREVER, grins. He’s got pock-marked cheeks and a flush over his nose, bright red and oily with sweat. “Not you, sweetheart,” he leers at Sebastian, “Was talking to your mate, wasn’ I?”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” Sebastian says flatly. “Piss off, if you know what’s good for you.” He takes his arm back from John’s shoulder and turns around, facing off. There’s six of them, counting Emma-Forever, with the scrawny limbs and padded stomachs of alcoholic young men hitting thirty.

Emma-Forever hoots. “What’s good for us!” His friends take the cue, laughing. “You think you’re real tough, do you? Only problem is, we don’t like kiddy-fiddlers hanging around our bar.” His voice goes hard – as hard as he can make it, with the slur of alcohol still thick on his tongue. “So why don’t _you_ piss off. And don’t come back.” Sebastian tilts his head to the side, pulling the muscles of his neck in a gesture he recognizes as Jim’s.

Half of him is thinking, _don’t, not worth it, you’ve fucked up enough today,_ and the rest of him isn’t thinking anything at all.

“I think there’s a taxi rank down the block a ways,” John says. His voice is quiet, a note of caution hanging around his tone like a gentle touch on Sebastian’s arm, pulling Seb back. Sebastian adjusts his posture automatically, moving away from a contact he only imagines is there.

There’s something itching under his skin now, hotter and brighter than self-hatred. It’s almost a relief.

“Why don’t you go on and listen to your boyfriend there, love,” Emma-Forever says. His grin is yellowed, teeth crooked in his jaw. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Seb licks his lip and spits to the side. There aren’t enough people on the street for anyone to notice what’s happened, although the bar crowds are still moving around back down by the door to Campbell’s. There’s a siren going, somewhere far off, and the air reeks of cheap cigarette smoke.

“You listenin’ to me, cocksucker?”

Sebastian, without a word, steps across the pavement, under the awning of the building next to them. He’s gone still, all of a sudden – still and absolutely calm. It feels a little bit like being light-headed; there’s a clarity to everything that makes him a little bit dizzy. He can hear Emma-Forever behind him, jeering something to his boys. John’s footsteps are tense, bouncing off his toes with restrained nerves as he follows Sebastian. When Seb leans over to set his fiddle case down carefully out of the wet, he catches a glimpse of John’s fist balled tight at his side. John’s arm is tense all the way to his shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything, though. Sebastian appreciates that.

Sebastian straightens back up and turns to face Emma-Forever and his thugs. They’re arrayed in a tight half-circle around him and John now, crowding them back against the building.

“Got something to say, cocksucker, you can say it to me.” Emma-Forever shifts his weight to one hip and crosses his arms, like a bad thug in a cartoon.

“I’m waiting for you to realize that I’m going to beat your fucking face in, honestly,” Sebastian replies calmly.

“ _You’re_ having a go at _me?_ ” Emma-Forever takes a step in, putting himself neatly within Sebastian’s reach. “This is the last time I’m going to tell you to get out of –”

“Can we hurry this up?” Sebastian interrupts. He falls into a stance, ready to fight, and doesn’t even try to be casual about it. Some of the smarter guys surrounding them are looking nervous, now. Emma-Forever’s a good two inches shorter than Sebastian, with fifty pounds less muscle and a drunken stumble in his walk. “It’s late, and I was supposed to have my cock up your mom’s arse an hour ago.”

John groans. At least he knows what’s coming. One of the boys snubs his cigarette out on the pavement and sends a nervous glance at his neighbour. They’re sizing up the odds now, even as drunk as they are, and Sebastian can see them coming to the conclusion that they can’t chew what they’ve bitten off.

Sebastian raises his fists. Emma-Forever takes a swing, high and wild, throwing his shoulder into the punch so his chest splays open and undefended. None of his friends matter now. No one can step forward in time to stop what’s going to happen.

Sebastian’s face splits open in a grin, and he can’t help it. It’s perfect, everything about it, as if he’d planned it out himself.

Emma-Forever swings and Sebastian steps forward. He ducks under Emma-Forever’s arm, plants his foot, wheels, and breaks Emma-Forever’s ribs with two short, sharp blows. _Flawless._ Sebastian can feel the bone on impact: hard at first, then giving with a crack like a widow-maker. His knuckles sink into Emma-Forever’s fat, and for a second the feeling of it makes Sebastian nauseous: like stepping onto rotting fruit. Adrenaline sings through his body, wild and manic.

Sebastian barely registers Emma-Forever’s disbelieving howl before he’s moving again, up and out, dancing back and raising his fists into a defensive position.

“ _Shit,_ ” someone says, quiet and shocked. Sebastian tosses his hair out of his eyes, triumphant, nearly giddy with the sheer ease of it. He’s still smiling – so widely it hurts his face. Every muscle in his body feels like it’s thrumming; smooth and ready and perfect; like there isn’t a limit to what he could do.

Emma-Forever stumbles, raising a hand and pressing it to his side. His face is pale, underneath the alcohol flush, and just a little bit green. Sebastian doesn’t give him time to recover. John’s still wavering by the wall, deciding what to do, when Sebastian slides forward under Emma-Forever’s guard again, and drives his elbow up, into and through Emma-Forever’s nose.

There’s a wet cracking sound like eggshells, then Emma-Forever screams – nasal and thick with mucus. He falls backwards towards his friends, clutching his nose. Blood is smeared on his fingers already, caught in the stubble on his chin. Sebastian can feel a death’s head grin spread over his face as he follows the motion, guard up and ready, swaying slightly as he looks for the next opening. Emma-Forever might as well not be moving at all. His eyes are darting and panicked, an animal in a trap, and none of his friends are ready to step forward to save him. Blood is singing in Sebastian’s heart, bright and vivid and intoxicating. The idiot is prey now. A weak thing for the hunting.

Sebastian catches Emma-Forever again, low in the stomach, then on the jaw as he cringes over. This time Emma-Forever loses his footing, stumbling down and catching himself on a hand. It’s all slow-motion to Sebastian. He shifts his balance lightly, shifting his hips to put the weight of his whole body’s momentum into a kick.

Emma-Forever gets three inches of air over the pavement, bounces once, and leaves a smear all the way to the feet of his friends. He doesn’t try to get up.

Sebastian exhales softly, dropping back to a neutral stance. He raises his eyes to the circle of men still surrounding them, looking childish and unsure in their oversize track suits. He can see the fear in them; can nearly taste it in the air. It makes Sebastian feel powerful, like god, like even if they pulled a gun they couldn’t stop him.

Sebastian starts walking forward. On the pavement, Emma-Forever groans, and starts trying to push himself upwards. _No,_ Sebastian thinks to himself, calm and casual. _No, you don’t._ His hands curl back into fists. He picks up his pace.

Someone grabs the back of Sebastian’s jacket and hauls at it so sharply the pull takes Sebastian off guard and he nearly falls. He stumbles backward a step and catches himself on his elbow in something soft. He only realizes it’s John’s chest by the smell of John’s cologne. It’s enough of an impact that John grunts, taking his weight, and that penetrates the manic glee in Sebastian’s brain just long enough to make him pause.

“Alright,” John says to the men in front of them, voice steady. “You’ve had your laugh.” There’s something very wary in his voice, like he’s measuring out each word to see if it weighs too much. Sebastian scowls, trying to tug away, but John’s grip is firm. His fist is twisted up in the fabric of Sebastian’s jacket, and before Sebastian can think of sliding it off John slides an arm around Sebastian’s waist to hold him still. When Sebastian stops struggling and looks down he can see the tension in John’s jaw. John’s chin juts defensively upward. He looks pale and terrified, like he’s about to be sick.

Sebastian stops trying to get away. He has the sudden and nauseating feeling that _he’s_ done that. That John is scared of him.

“What’s say we all call it a night?” John asks their attackers easily, as if they’d been having a pint instead of a fistfight. They probably don’t know him well enough to know how much he’s restraining himself.

“No trouble,” one of the young men replies, more than a bit nervous as he helps Emma-Forever up off the ground. “We didn’t mean it.” Emma-Forever makes a noise like he wants to disagree, and the nervous man rather obviously kicks him in the shins. A thick clot of blood oozes from Emma’s nose, splashing down to the concrete.

_I could kill him. I could have killed them all, if I wanted._

As if sensing the thought, John’s grip on Sebastian’s waist tightens, fingers digging in over Sebastian’s hip.

It drags Sebastian back to a semblance of sanity. “Go on then,” Sebastian says flatly, feeling suddenly drained. “Piss off.” He turns his back on the street, shaking off John’s arm, and bends down to fetch his violin.

 _Bunch of fucking cunts,_ Sebastian thinks, then quieter – even in his own head – _Jim would never have stopped me. He’d have fucked me raw, over the bodies._

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

John doesn’t talk to him until Sebastian is hanging up his coat and the apartment door is shut behind them. “So,” he says slowly, “Are you going to tell me what that was about?”

Sebastian glances over his shoulder. John’s not looking at him; he’s got his back turned, opening up a cupboard in the kitchen. As Sebastian watches, he takes down two glasses and heads for the sink.

Sebastian aches like a bruise. He doesn’t want to talk. Something in him wants to snap; to get mad at John for not knowing, instinctively, that all Sebastian needs to be right now is a body. He hesitates with his fingers still resting on the cold leather of his jacket, listening to water pouring out of the faucet.

There’s a squeak as John turns it off.

“I saw my brother conduct an opera today,” Sebastian says, and then corrects himself as he gets a look at the kitchen clock. “Yesterday.”

John comes back and hands him a glass of water. “And how was that?” he asks, cautious instead of mocking.

Sebastian takes the glass and shrugs. “It happened.” He watches ripples move on the surface of his water, and adds, “Severin’s sort of the golden son,” because he can’t stand the silence. “He’s doing a lot better than I am.” He can feel John’s eyes on him. _I should go,_ Sebastian thinks, already uncomfortable with the warmth prickling his skin and the calm, strong weight of John’s affection. He bites his lip, hard enough that the raw skin there starts to hurt again.

“I – “

“You know – “ John starts saying something at the same time as Sebastian and they trip over each other and fall into silence. John winces. Sebastian takes a long pull of his water rather than start again, and John finishes. “I was going to say, you know, my sister might say the same thing about me.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

John smiles, surprisingly sharp. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, isn’t there?” he sips his water, swallows it hurriedly, and adds, “She’s an alcoholic. It’s ruining her marriage – she keeps hitting rock bottom – you know how it is with addicts. I always suspected I made her feel a bit like a prat. Performing for the orchestra, functioning in society…”

It doesn’t make Sebastian feel any better. “Her ruining her life isn’t on you,” he mumbles, thinking of himself, and drains his water.

“My success isn’t on her, either.” John says mildly. Sebastian looks up. “And you know, when she calls me up on a sober day – her sober days aren’t any less because I’m sober.” John raises his eyebrows at Sebastian, leans forward, and plucks Sebastian’s empty glass from his fingers. “She has to fight to stay stable, you know, and that’s – it’s much braver than what I’ve got,” he finishes emphatically.

Sebastian makes a face. “I don’t have to – “

“Well, I know _that_.”

John takes the glasses and puts them in the dishwasher with an air of thoughtful silence. Finally, over his shoulder, he says to Sebastian – “I’d flatten anyone who said Harry had to measure up to me. And you shouldn’t feel you have to measure up to – ah – Severin.” He comes back and grips Sebastian’s arm, his hand warm and solid. “I think you’re brilliant, you know. You’re a fantastic conductor and a bloody amazing violinist.”

Sebastian makes a face again, a bit more silly this time, on purpose to make John laugh.

“You don’t have to meet anyone’s standards but your own, Sebastian,” John says. He’s grinning, but his voice is serious. “Least of all mine.”

Sebastian takes it as an out, dropping his voice to a purposefully suggestive purr in order to turn the conversation. “And… Do I meet your standards?”

John throws up his hands in disgust. “What am I supposed to do with you?” he asks, exasperated.

“Take me to bed,” Sebastian supplies.

John draws Sebastian to the bedroom with a gentle ring of fingers around Sebastian’s wrist, his touch light and tentative like he’s scared Sebastian’s going to pull back. Inside the bedroom door he leans up to kiss Sebastian, his eyelashes pale and transparent on his cheeks, his hands braced on Sebastian’s biceps. Sebastian shuts his eyes.

John goes slow: taking his time licking in to Sebastian’s mouth, giving rather than demanding. His hands slide up Sebastian’s shoulders, rucking the fabric of Sebastian’s shirt, then cup his jaw. His fingers are rough, calloused from the drumsticks, and they rasp on Sebastian’s stubble like sandpaper.

Something in Sebastian’s chest aches, a hum like glass vibrating, about to shatter.

He curls his arms around John’s waist, holding him there, warm and solid, opening his mouth for the kiss. John tastes of beer and smoke and mead – a faintest touch, underneath the sting of alcohol, of summer strawberries. Sebastian sucks John’s lip into his mouth, running his teeth over it, and John lets out a small gasp, his body falling forward into Sebastian and crushing him back against the door.

Something leaps up in Sebastian’s stomach, hot and hungry, but he refuses to lose control. Not yet. He tilts his head a little and does it again, taking control of the kiss slow but purposeful until John is left gasping and clinging to him for balance.

Sebastian takes his hand from John’s back and grips his hip, forcing John in closer to him, grinding John’s hips against his thigh. John’s hard, already, and his stomach is quivering in tight little bursts as he pants. His fingers are twisted up in Sebastian’s hair, a bright knot of pain and tension.

 _Too easy,_ Sebastian thinks, but the thought is warm and fond. He can’t help it. He strokes his thumb purposefully on the bone of John’s hip, small circles like a reminder of where else his hands might go, and John clings to him like Sebastian is the only thing keeping him upright. Sebastian wants to keep him here, like this; the two of them, leaning on each other, curled up in a protective circle nothing else can penetrate.

But he also wants oblivion and he can’t reach it, not like this.

Sebastian wrenches his mouth away from John’s and nips the rough skin over John’s jugular, tasting the salt of John’s sweat. It drags a harsh sound from somewhere low in John’s chest, tortured and wanting, and Sebastian can feel John’s cock twitch and pulse against his thigh.

“You remember how fucked out you were last time?” Sebastian growls, in John’s ear, heady with control. “You couldn’t think about anything but how bad you wanted my hands on your cock.” John clutches at him helplessly. Sebastian could tear him apart – he could do anything he wanted, now, and he half imagines John would beg him for the privilege. “I’m going to have you like that again, John. Begging me.”

It’s too much. Sebastian takes a shuddering breath. _Slow down._ He slides his hands purposefully over John’s body, down to his ass, then rocks John forward into him again, lips open against the skin of John’s ear.

He can feel the head of John’s cock bump bluntly at his thigh. John’s breath is ragged. “ _Sebastian –_ “

_He would beg if I asked him._

“If you’ve got an objection – ” Sebastian slips his hands inside John’s pants, dragging his fingernails down the curve of John’s ass. It’ll leave red marks behind; sharp pink lines where he’s defiled John’s perfect skin.

“No!” John gasps. “God, no.”

Sebastian drags the lines back upwards again; under John’s shirt, up the solid muscles of his back, and wrenches John’s shirt over his head. He tosses it to the floor, somewhere to his left, so he can put his hands back on John’s bare skin. He can feel John’s fingers pick at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling with nerves and speed. Sebastian pushes them off the wall with his shoulder-blades, crowding John back towards the bed. His shirt’s hanging open, loose except where it clings to the sweat on his ribs. John half stumbles, off-balance, and Sebastian doesn’t have the patience to let him get his footing so he simply wraps an arm around John’s waist and lifts him – John’s toes dragging on the carpet the last two feet to the edge of the bed.

John laughs, breathless and startled, and Sebastian grins. He deposits John on the bed sheets and John lets himself sprawl backwards, chest and stomach bared for Sebastian’s touch. He looks vulnerable; but Sebastian can still feel the solid weight of his muscles, the hard lines of John’s body pressed tight against him.

Not soft, John. Not small.

“Waiting for something?” John jokes, challenging, and Sebastian grins back at him. John runs a thumb down his chest, over his abs to where the V of his hipbones disappears beneath his jeans, almost to the tip of his cock. He’s hard, straining against the rough fabric. “I’m not a patient man – “

“Shut it,” Sebastian growls, mock angry, and John laughs. Seb strips his shirt off the rest of the way, dropping it on the floor, and takes his trousers off as an afterthought. He crawls over John in nothing but soft cotton pants, feeling the cool air on his skin in blinding contrast to the heat of John’s body.

John reaches out to Sebastian like a starving man for a feast, his hands greedy and clutching. He digs his fingers into the muscles of Sebastian’s arm, the bones of his ribs, the curve of his waist, as if he can’t make up his mind what to touch. Sebastian bends down, his hair trailing over John’s stomach before his mouth follows, tracing the lines of muscles and scars. He licks a wet stripe up to John’s nipple, sucks it in his mouth, runs his teeth over the sensitive skin. John gasps again, arching up on the bed.

Sebastian feels the tenuous bindings of control, wrapping them together; like John’s a puppet on Sebastian’s invisible strings.

There’s a brief flash in his head where he sees – _John grabbing my wrists, holding me down, **forcing** me, making me take it – breaking me down –_ but there isn’t anyone who could do that, not really. Sebastian’s too strong now.

He puts his mouth back to John’s chest. Working down, this time. He undoes John’s pants with his mouth, tugs the zipper down. “Wait – “ John pants. “Wait.”

Sebastian debates not waiting. A split-second moment where he thinks of tightening those invisible threads, seeing how deep his control really goes. But in the end, that won’t do it for him. He sits back, on his knees between John’s thighs.

John is flushed, his hair-askew and his eyes blown so far that there’s no blue left. “The lube,” he mumbles. “Condoms. I want you to – like you said.”

Sebastian arches an eyebrow. A thin twist of amusement coils around his brain, pulling him back from the mindless lust. “Embarrassed?”

John makes a face at him, losing his blush as soon as Sebastian starts teasing. “Maybe I don’t think you’re up to it.”

“You know, you said that last time – “

“Did I?” John’s mouth quirks at the corner. “I don’t remember. You’ll just have to prove yourself again.”

“Greedy,” Sebastian accuses, but there’s no heat in it. He steals a kiss before he leans over John to the edge of the bed, fumbling the drawer of the bedside table open and feeling around until he gets the sticky bottle of lube, a little hand towel, and a condom in a noisy foil wrapper.

He drops the condom and hand towel on the bed and moves back a bit, far enough that he can strip John the rest of the way. John helps as much as he can, lifting his hips and toeing off his socks until he’s spread out naked underneath Sebastian.

What had Sebastian thought of the first time? Greek gods? Now it’s Michelangelo, the _ignudi,_ soft skin and hard muscle, flawed and achingly beautiful.

He strokes his free hand down John’s hip, over his thigh, making the thin hair of John’s body tickle up against his fingers. “You’re amazing,” he murmurs. He might even mean it. He can see John’s tendons go tense as John grips the sheets.

“Are you going to keep teasing me?” he asks, voice strained and breathless but trying for normalcy. Sebastian’s smiles. John’s cock is hard against his stomach, smearing a wet trail over his skin.

“If I like.”

John nearly moans, shutting his eyes in frustration, but Sebastian doesn’t mean it. He uncaps the lube, pouring it over his fingers until they’re cold and slick. John’s eyes open a crack to watch him. Sebastian smiles at him, reaches down between John’s legs slow and deliberate as John watches. “Would you mind?” he wonders out loud, fingers brushing over John’s entrance. He watches John flinch – a ripple of tension running over him like his body tries to move away and writhe closer, all at once.

“No,” John manages, although his voice is increasingly strained. “If you like, if – “ Sebastian presses a little harder, feeling his finger start to slip inside John’s body. “ _Sebastian_ – “

Sebastian pushes in and John loses all the air in his body in a rush, his head falling back on the pillows. Sebastian watches, carefully, tracing the shudders that move through John’s scar tissue as he works his way deeper, curling his finger up until John bears down and moans.

“There?” Sebastian asks, softly, not expecting an answer. He rubs the thin cluster of nerves and John groans again, grinding his hips down against Sebastian’s hand. His eyes are shut, his mouth slightly open in an expression that reminds Sebastian of pain or surprise. He’s got his hands up above his head, wrapped in the sheets so tightly he’s tense up to his shoulders.

That tender ache is growing in Sebastian’s chest again. He wants to keep John like this; thoughtless, careless, so focused on the sensations of his body that he can’t worry about Sebastian. Seb works a second finger in, wringing a cry from John like he’s taking John apart. _I want to protect him –_ Sebastian realizes, even stronger than his own desire. _I don’t want him to have to deal with the rest of me – Just this – Just this –_

Sebastian works his fingers in deeper, stroking John open painfully slow; ignoring the burn of desire in his own stomach so he can watch as John goes mindless beneath him. With each thrust of his fingers he presses against John’s prostate, hot and slick. John’s thigh jerks, a muscle jumping. Sebastian braces himself by John’s hip, leaning forward over his side, so when John writhes he pushes upwards against Sebastian’s chest. His leg comes up, between Sebastian’s, and Sebastian feels it press at his cock – hard enough that he sucks in a quick breath and fights the urge to grind downwards.

John exhales shortly, something that might have been a laugh if Sebastian hadn’t shoved a third finger in him. Whatever he was about to say, that cuts it off.

“ _Seb –_ “ John pleads. He’s pulling the sheets off the bed, unable to keep his hands still as he writhes.

Sebastian doesn’t stop. “Are you ready?” he strokes John’s prostate again, just to draw another cry from the back of John’s throat. “Do you want me to fuck you now?” Three fingers deep in him, John’s body trembling with every stroke like he’s about to explode.

He hasn’t even tried to touch himself. Sebastian should reward him for that.

John grits his teeth in frustration, clear to see in the set of his jaw. “You know the – bloody answer to that – “ he grinds out harshly, scowling at Sebastian.

Sebastian laughs. He pulls back from John, wipes his hand on the towel, grabs for the condom. As he rips the package open with his teeth he watches John take a shuddering breath, unclench his fingers carefully from the sheets. He reaches out to Sebastian slowly, like Sebastian’s something infinitely precious and fragile, that John shouldn’t touch and can’t _help_ touching, all at once. He drags his fingernails down Sebastian’s chest, grips at his thighs, tries his damn best to get a fist around Sebastian’s cock.

It makes it awkward, getting the condom on, but Seb manages somehow, and then John’s hands are on him.

He nearly loses his balance. He hears his breath his between his teeth, somewhere distant. It’s like _fire._ Somehow, in the course of getting John prepped, Sebastian had managed to ignore his own arousal. And now John has him – now John is stroking him, slow and purposeful, his eyes dark and his grip tight. Sebastian feels like he’s going to stop breathing. He locks his elbow to keep himself from falling and concentrates on breathing. Every motion of John’s hand feels like a blow to the stomach, like he’s going shoving electricity straight under Sebastian’s skin.

“Come on, Seb – I need you.”

It’s only when John lets go that Sebastian can move again. He folds himself over John, pressing them tight chest to chest, so he can feel the heat of John’s body against every inch of his own. John’s ankles lock behind his thighs, hips titled up so Sebastian is positioned perfectly at his entrance.

Sebastian feels like every nerve ending in him is focused to a single point, like everything he is depends on John. John cups his face, both hands, and leans up to kiss him. As Sebastian presses down, pushing John into the mattress, the thrust of John’s tongue echoes the slide of his cock into John’s body.

If Sebastian was thinking of making him beg, it’s too late now. He can’t hold back. He can’t do anything but fuck John, try desperately to give John everything he has. It’s not enough – it’ll never be enough – but it’s lovely, bitter-sweet and awful. Every grind of his hips into John’s body makes Sebastian’s stomach and chest tighten, like the space he’s got for air inside him is getting smaller and smaller. There’s a feeling like something’s building, like electricity in the air.

It hurts. It’s good. There’s no holding back.

John’s hair stuck to his brow with sweat, his eyelids so pale Sebastian can see the veins through them. Sebastian forces an arm under John’s back, lifting him up off the bed for a better angle. He feels John’s body arc, pliable in his hands. John’s fingers are back in his hair again – tangled tight and pulling, like the pain will dissuade Sebastian.

He just wants more. Sebastian wants to fuck John like this until John is sundered from himself, until John has nothing left but wanting him.

John chest heaves, sucking down air, and his fingers scramble at Sebastian’s sides like he’s begging for more. Like Sebastian can’t possibly get close enough. He can feel John’s muscles clench when John moans, drawing his body tight around Sebastian. Sebastian’s chest feels like it’s going to implode. It’s too much – the bitter protective ache in his chest, the thick smear of self-hatred still clinging to him from earlier today.

_More. Make me forget, make me nothing –_

He leans forward, bracing himself with a forearm over John’s head as he rolls his hips forward, forcing himself a little deeper into John even though John’s so tight it nearly hurts. John moans, his lips parting wetly. His eyes open, just a hair, just enough for Sebastian to see a glimmering line of blue through his lashes. “Seb – ”

He looks so vulnerable that Sebastian gasps out a laugh, breathless and bitter, before he rolls his hips forward again. _You trust me,_ he thinks _._ He’s not sure if he pities John for that. He shuts his eyes. Every time he fucks into John, John shifts up into him. Just a hair, matching his rhythm, pushing him deeper.

“More, Sebastian, please,” John begs. “Please, I want, I need – “

And Sebastian gives him everything.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

Afterwards he sits at the side of the bed, and looks over at John. “I don’t do this,” he says, finally.

John looks confused. “What?”

Sebastian gestures. “This. _Us._ I don’t…”

“Then don’t.” The confusion clears from John’s face and he smiles, slightly, a little curve at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are soft as he watches Sebastian, fond and unthreatening. “Whatever you need to _not_ call this, we’re not that. What I’m offering – if it’s what you want – is a safe place.”

Sebastian rubs his hands together, then over his face.

“It’s not easy for you, is it?” John asks. He doesn’t sound pitying, and Sebastian appreciates that. He just sounds like he understands. “I’m not pushing, Seb. I’m just… here. If you want me.”

Sebastian drags his hands off his face and drops them in his lap. John’s got his head cocked to the side, his hair like ash in the moonlight. “This isn’t Hollywood,” Sebastian warns him. “I’m not going to wake up one day suddenly able to do that love-and-chocolates crap. You’re not going to _fix_ me.”

“I said I wasn’t pushing – “

“You don’t know _what_ you’re saying.”

John sighs and shoves himself up into a sitting position. He wraps his arms around his knees. “How about this,” he says, finally, with an air of consideration. “When you come over, you stay until morning. If you’re going out doing – “ he gestures, encompassing Sebastian’s still-fading bruises – “ _That,_ you call beforehand. And that’s it. That’s all I’ll ask.”

Sebastian feels himself bristle, even though he wishes he could take it as the kindness it’s supposed to be. “You think you can _protect_ me?”

“I think you’ll get yourself killed without someone to watch your back, you git.” John grins and Sebastian, surprising himself, grins back.

“Alright,” he says, not quite believing that he’s saying the word.

“Alright?”

“I can do that.” Sebastian feels the corner of his lip lift, begrudgingly, and ducks his head to hide it.

John beams. “Alright,” he repeats. “Alright.” John looks thoughtful for a moment, opens his mouth, shuts it again, and starts to smile. “Come back to bed,” he tells Sebastian, reaching out an inviting hand. There’s a wicked glint in his eye.

Sebastian blinks. “ _Again?_ ” he asks, startled.

John laughs. “Come on, old man,” he purrs, “You haven’t tired me out yet.”

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫


	8. Chapter 8

It’s sometime early in the morning when the buzzing of Sebastian’s phone wakes him up. It’s not loud, but Sebastian’s keyed to the sound like a dog on a leash: it brings him awake instantly. He rolls over, pulling the covers with him in a sweat-damp mess. Clawing fingers of fabric curl around his legs.

In the bed beside him, John grumbles – “Shut that up, would you?” and Sebastian grunts at him wordlessly.

The phone is in the pocket of Sebastian’s jeans. He tumbles out of bed and somehow finds his way to the crumpled heap of clothes on the floor. The light of Seb’s phone shows through the pocket. It’s the only glow in the unending dark. John’s bedroom is worse than black; the pure, absolute lightlessness of the center of the earth. Sebastian squats down and feels around the seams of his trousers until he gets the pocket and pulls out his phone.

New message.

<Wakey-wakey. Come and get me! – XOJM Sent: 3:30 AM 2014/10/30>

There’s an image attached; google maps, with a button dropped on the doorstep of a flat on Conduit Street. It’s not far from John’s: Seb could be there in fifteen minutes, if he wanted. Sebastian stares at the phone for a moment in silence, uncomfortably aware of the glow lighting up his face.

 _Does_ he want, though.

Sebastian looks over his shoulder at John. It’s impossible to make anything out in the dark, with the curtains drawn; then a car goes by outside, tires hissing on the puddles in the street. The headlights pour over John in a wave: the curve of his back, the bump of his shoulder in the blankets. He’s curled up facing the wall, head ducked down to his chest.

“Christ,” John mumbles, probably feeling Sebastian’s eyes on his back, “Get that light out, would you?”

Zzzzt. Zzzt. <Don’t make me wait, I’m not wearing panties. –XOJM Sent: 3:32 AM 2014/10/30>

Sebastian’s stomach flops over inside him, twice, wet laundry going around the drier. Rumble-thunk. Rumble-thunk. Rumble-thunk. He swallows and tastes bitter, nauseous acid. It’s Jim, of course. Who else could it be? Sebastian feels like someone’s touched a live wire to his intestines. He thinks his hands might be trembling, but can’t look down to check. Each thought in his head seems to wander through slowly, caught in a tremulous fog.

“Sebastian, I’m tired,” John complains, his voice thick with sleep.

Sebastian stabs the button of his phone with his finger, shutting off the screen. The room goes black again, nothing but shadow and indistinct shapes. Sebastian realizes he hasn’t spoken yet. His tongue is thick and gummy in his mouth, and he has to lick his lips to unstick it before trying to reply. “I think I might have to leave,” he hears himself tell John, as if he’s listening at a distance; as if he’s already out the door, hailing a cab. Going to Jim.

“What?” There’s a rustle of fabric as John pushes himself upright. Sebastian’s eyes are starting to adjust to the dark; he can make out the movement as John rubs his thumb and forefinger over his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Half-past three.”

“Christ.”

“You can get back to sleep,” Sebastian says. He pushes forward to his hands and knees, and starts feeling around in the dark for his clothes. “I’m alright, it’s just – “ the lie comes naturally, like breathing, like it’d been placed on the front of his tongue for him when he started speaking – “family stuff.”

“Everyone alright?”

Sebastian thinks John’s squinting at him, trying to make out his face, but it doesn’t really matter. Seb finds his underwear and shirt in quick succession. _Where did I leave the fiddle?_ “Yeah. Just – “

“Sneaking out again?” There’s an accusation there, and a thin reedy strain like an instrument out of tune. Seb winces, his hands stilling on the fabric of his shirt.

“It’s not like that.”

“If you say so.” John leans forward in the bed, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees. “I’ll…see you at practice, then.”

It tastes like a morgue in the bedroom, somehow, even though the smell of sweat and sex and life is still thick in the air. Sebastian shuts his eyes for a minute, feeling a stabbing pain somewhere up between his ribs. Cramp. _I’m doing this. This is my fault._ Guilt is a familiar pressure on the inside of his chest; like Sebastian’s too big for his bones, like they’re splintering under the weight of his failure.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“No,” John replies, colourlessly and just a little too quick, “What was I thinking?”

After that there’s a short silence and Sebastian knows they’re both thinking the same thing. _This is it._ If Seb leaves like this, it might as well be over between them. John’s going to feel the sting of it forever: a sharp prick of humiliation and betrayal. John was wrong about Sebastian all along; it’ll stab into him, through his lungs, up into his heart. _Guess that’s why they call it a knife in the back._

Sebastian’s mouth is covered with a grime that doesn’t seem to come from outside him. He wants to leave – he can feel it with every bone in his body, every aching magnetic inch drawn to Jim like a lodestone. He can feel it in the snug of his trousers against his hip bones, in the whisper of his shirt across his ribs. In his sore throat, his bloody knuckles, his blistered fingers –

That’s when he thinks of it.

Maybe Seb should know, when he straightens in the dark already thinking of the best way to soothe John’s feelings, that he’s too far gone for it to matter. Maybe he already knows, on some level, that he’s lying to save something that’s already dead.

But what the hell. He lies anyways. “If I could stay,” he tells John, “I would.” He paces back to the bed like he’s playing Mr. Darcy, reaches out to curl his hand around John’s fingers. “I will next time,” he says softly, squeezing. The perfect romantic hero.

Whatever rightful fear John’s got about Sebastian leaving subsides a little, and Sebastian can see an upward curve start in the shadows of John’s mouth. “Yeah right.”

“I will.” Sebastian leans forwards and presses his mouth to John’s; a chaste push of lips, John’s skin warm and dry against his. “Try to get some sleep, okay?” Faking concern. Fucked if Sebastian cares about John getting back to sleep: Fucked if he cares about anything except the fire in his stomach that started when he saw those letters – JM – JM – they might as well be burnt into his skin.

“Not much luck of that now. I’m wide awake.”

And then Sebastian has it; a delaying tactic, something to chase away the doubt for another precious few days. “Why don’t I play you back?”

He can see John’s head tilt, not quite understanding. “Go again?”

“Why don’t I play you back to sleep? I’ve got the Strad here.” Sebastian can feel John eyeing him dubiously even in the pitch black, and grins. “Go on. Lay down.” He kisses John again, for luck, and hops out of bed.

The Strad is sitting by the door in its case. When Sebastian pulls it open the instrument gleams in the hallway light: a burnished honey shine that seems to brighten up the room. It’s too big for this small house; too beautiful. Sebastian curls his fingers around it and feels the rosen dust and the songs inside the strings, vibrating against his fingers.

He feels a brush on the side of his mind – a thought that if he lets in, he won’t be able to stop thinking. He shoves the desire firmly aside, grabs his bow, and straightens.

John is waiting for him in the bed. Sebastian leaves the door a little bit open with the hall light on, so the soft golden light falls across the sheets. It feels curiously intimate; almost more than the sex had. Sebastian sits on the edge of the bed, and sets his violin to his chin.

It’s not love. He knows that. Love is a consuming passion in Sebastian; love is violent and bloody and vital, love is something that rips him apart from the inside.

Love is an excess that Sebastian cannot allow himself.

A lock of blonde hair falls across John’s forehead, drifting between his sweet blue eyes and those worry-lines like origami creases. Marking all the places Sebastian could fold John up, make him small. Sebastian shuts his eyes. He doesn’t want to make John small, although he knows he will. It’s only a matter of time. Dirty hands. Clean skin. Sebastian was always destructive, always trash, oily and staining –

“You’re going to owe me,” John mumbles, his voice still thick with sleep. Because he doesn’t trust himself to speak Sebastian plays out the first few chords of a song slow and soft instead of responding, and John chuckles. “Should have known.” Sebastian can hear John roll over, and he opens his eyes.

He sees it as if through a picture frame. The violin is foreshortened before him, casting a shadow on John’s bare chest. John’s scar tissue seems colourless against his pale skin, his hair ethereal wisps of cobweb. Sebastian feels his way through the notes of the song, tenuous and quiet in the pre-dawn dark. John’s chest rises and falls with his breathing, slow and steady.

Sebastian smiles, despite himself; a bittersweet thing. He could have loved John, maybe. If he was a better man. He still wishes he could. He still half-thinks that if he forces himself to, he can be good enough to want this.

The fire Jim set rumbles in Sebastian’s belly, hungry and deadly, but Sebastian ignores it.

He opens his mouth, licks his lips to wet them. “ _Maybe it’s the way I was taught,_ ” he sings, _“Or maybe it’s the way we fought_.” He pares the music down to the smallest sounds he can allow and still keep the thread of it in his mind; silvery notes so frail and delicate they seem to drift on the air like snowflakes. “ _But a smile never grins without tears to begin –_ “ slowing down the progression, so the rioting song is a mournful dirge. “ _For each kiss is a cry we all lost._ ”

And isn’t that the Irish in a nutshell; isn’t that Seb’s Da, sitting in London’s Parliament with the Kildares still hanging heavy over his head.

Dirty hands. Dirty world.

John shuts his eyes; care-worn lashes settling against his rugged cheeks. He’s so colourless in this light; so translucent. Sebastian thinks of John like a teacup near the edge of the table. Something in Seb’s chest is shredding itself slowly to pieces. When he looks at John every small insecurity in John’s heart seems wide open, like leaking fault-lines into his soul. Sebastian knows the places he could put his fingers to break John open, and he trembles with the knowledge. Half of him says, _go gently; what you touch is precious._

Half of him wants to pry John open. Like clamshells for dinner: greedy fingers clawing at the vulnerable flesh inside. “T _hough there is nothing left to gain_ ,” Sebastian sings, his voice rough, _“But for the banshee that stole the grave –“_

_Is this how Jim feels? When he looks at me?_

Sebastian wonders, watching the rise and fall of John’s chest start to go slow and regular. There’s a stray hair on John’s lip that moves with his breathing like moth wings. One of John’s hands – square-nailed, thick-fingered, and capable – rests lightly on his stomach over the softened lines of his abdominal muscles.

Maybe Jim sees the faultlines, Sebastian decides, plucking at the strings while he concentrates on keeping his breathing steady. But Jim isn’t capable of this awful, guilty affection. Jim would know how to break Sebastian open; and he would glory in it. He would never ache for the breaking, never wish he could touch without splitting open. Sebastian’s fingers find the song without him, mindless and mechanical. “ _Still we find ourselves in the same old mess –_ “ Is that the difference between us, then? We both reave but I wish –   _“- Singing drunken lullabies…”_

John is asleep now, really and truly, but Sebastian finishes the song anyways. _I wish._ He plucks the sounds from the strings slower and slower, letting the music die by inches on the air.

“ _I sit and dwell on faces past,_ ” he tells the empty room, “ _Like memories seem to fade._ ” John’s ceiling has no answer, but Sebastian can feel it watching anyways. Staring down at him, lidless and implacable. Outside the cars go by on the pavement, kicking up rainwater and subtle streams of light. “ _No colour left but black and white, and soon will fade to grey…”_

John makes a soft sound in his sleep, not quite loud enough to be a snore.

_“And we find ourselves in the same old mess, singing drunken lullabies.”_

That’s the end but Sebastian plays it again, like punctuation, just to make sure. “ _And we find ourselves in the same old mess…”_ His fingers still on the strings and he lets the Strad fall from his chin, resting against his knee as he watches John sleep. “ _..Singing drunken lullabies._ ”

Deep breath. In his sleep, John turns over, seeking Sebastian’s heat in the bed. He is frowning, slightly; the petulant expression of a child.

_I wish._

Without looking back Sebastian stands and makes his way to the door. There’s a dirty feeling on his tongue. He locks up behind him, turning the hallway light off. As he steps into the featureless hallway outside John’s apartment Seb can still see John, asleep in his bed, curled up and warm with his blonde hair brushing his forehead and his eyelids fluttering against his skin.

He trusts Sebastian to come back. To be honest. He _trusts_ Seb. Jesus Christ, isn’t that the worst part of it? Sebastian takes a shuddering breath in the hallway of John’s apartment building. He can’t think about it. He won’t.

He rubs a thumb over his mouth, turns his collar up against the cold, and starts down the stairs.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

 

> _People won’t be PEOPLE when they hear this SOUND, that’s been glowing in the DARK at the EDGE of the TOWN_
> 
> _PEOPLE won’t be PEOPLE, no the PEOPLE won’t be PEOPLE –_

Jim’s entire building rocks with the sound. The drums drive Sebastian up the stairs to the landing, hard and relentless as marching orders. He feels them in the soles of his boots; in the loose and ready set of his shoulders.

The singer wails into life on the landing like a ghost shrieking in the night. Jim’s door is black – silver number – and it’s unlocked, slightly ajar with a thin line of light between the hinges.

 

> _PEOPLE won’t be PEOPLE, no the PEOPLE won’t be PEOPLE –_

Sebastian lets himself into Jim’s apartment and shuts the door behind him, scowling. Inside the music is playing so loud that he can feel the hardwood vibrating with the baseline, treble screeching hard against the ceiling. “Can you turn that shit off?” he yells irritably.

Jim doesn’t even bother raising his voice. It’s a wonder he manages to make himself heard. “I like this _shit,_ as you so eloquently put it.” He has his back to the room, standing over a beautiful stereo system. He’s braced on both white hands, his body blocking off the machine. Jim looks like a still from some old movie; black suit, slick hair. There’s something nostalgic about Jim’s neatness, the way he never seems less than perfectly prepared. It’s an echo of a time when everybody knew what they were doing.

Jim turns the music up, one of his heels tapping along. His head nods, every other beat, not even touching the perfect shape of his hair.

 

> _The singer is a crook, whoa-HEY-oh –_

Something about the curve of his back makes Sebastian’s teeth grit together. “Over-produced nonsense with nothing but a good drum machine and delusions of grandeur,” he pronounces, to soothe the frustrated burn in his stomach. The Strad gets set down by the door, a little too hard so it knocks against the mouldings. “Is that all you called me over for?” Sebastian’s not really mad about the music, but it seems a safe thing to argue about. There are other subjects – dangerous ones – tingling on his lips.

_Why can’t I leave well enough alone?_

Jim flicks the side of his suit jacket away from his hip, shoving one hand into his pocket, and throws a come-hither look over his shoulder. Sebastian wants to spit, badly, but he thinks it might be suicide. There’s nothing in here that looks like it’s seen a mess before. Sebastian keeps his hands to himself because he’s half-terrified Jim’ll spot the smudges of his touch. From the outside Jim’s apartment might be a raggedy hole-in-the-wall on the historic side of downtown, but the inside is as expensively plastic and cold as a robotic brain. The decorating theme is cream and chrome, sharp edges and understated lines. The rug probably costs more than Sebastian.

If Seb fucks something up, he gets the distinct feeling he’ll pay. Pound of flesh. Sinner’s soul.

Jim is grinning, Sebastian realizes; smug and unapologetic. “We find ourselves in the same old mess – “ he sings quietly, batting his eyelashes. He’s out of tune with his own music. “Singing drunken lullabies – “

Sebastian’s sort of impressed Jim manages to keep the rhythm, soft against the wailing distorted guitars.

 

> _PEOPLE won’t be PEOPLE, no the PEOPLE won’t be PEOPLE –_

But he’s not that impressed. Sebastian’s jaw clenches. “What the fuck has that got to do with you?”

Finally, like he’d been waiting for the moment, Jim turns from the stereo, slow and deliberate. There’s something cautious of the motion, and Sebastian doesn’t miss the fact that Jim is careful about the swing of his hips – like he’s keeping Sebastian from seeing something resting on top of the stereo case. Sebastian’s eyes narrow. If there’s anything Jim’s hiding, it doesn’t show on his surface. His shirt is buttoned up to his chin, black tie in a full Windsor like a punctuation mark at his throat. He eyes Sebastian for a moment in silence, inscrutable. Then he tilts his head to the side, casting shadows from his sharp cheekbones down into the hollows of his face. It makes him look – Sebastian supposes he is – gaunt and otherworldly, a fae thing full of arcane and inhuman understanding.

“Is it going well, Sebastian?” there’s a guttering light in Jim’s deep black eyes, and he curves his voice low around the words, drawing them out into a monotone purr. “Fucking your Johnny-boy.”

A hundred answers go with that question. Sharp answers, painful answers, vulnerable answers that cut to something deep inside Sebastian. Answers full of guilt and wishing and awful, aching betrayal. Sebastian clenches his mouth tight shut so none of them escape. “None of your business,” he snaps when he’s able to speak, refusing to be afraid even though there’s something in his chest that’s getting tighter the longer Jim stares at him. The silence is preternaturally eerie. Sebastian has to part his lips to get enough air to his head. It’s hot in the room – or maybe it’s just Sebastian – and Jim is implacable in his shining black-and-white.

 _I’m not afraid,_ Sebastian lies quietly to himself. He feels like he’s standing in the center of an e.e. cummings poem, all disconnected vowels and strange words drifting around without meaning.

“Don’t lie to me,” Jim replies, still in that monotone drone. He shakes his head, very slowly, back and forth. Sebastian is put in mind of a cobra preparing to strike. “It won’t work.”

It doesn’t sound like bragging; it sounds like Jim’s stating facts. There’s something almost gentle about his tone; Jim is a glacier, politely telling bedrock that he’s about to drive it a mile below sea level. The faultlines in Sebastian’s soul must glow, to him; must be neon and naphtha, brighter than sunlight.

Sebastian squares off his shoulders. Even with the solid weight of the door behind him, it doesn’t feel like a defensible position. “Things are going great with John and I,” Sebastian snarls.

Jim blinks. He looks surprised, and a little bit amused; like Sebastian is a precocious child telling jokes. “Oh, Moran. Don’t be silly. There’s something missing, isn’t there?” His head sways slightly, a cobra’s motion, and the stiff hairs of his stubble scrape at the crisp white collar of his shirt. There’s an allusion there – a priest, maybe – that somber suit and starched white –

Sebastian never was a good Catholic. He folds his arms over his chest, digging his heels in. “I’ve never been happier.”

Jim just smiles. “You wish he was more.”

“Christ, will you _shut up?_ I’m not like – “

One of Jim’s pale fingers snaps up, cutting Sebastian off. Jim levels it over Sebastian’s shoulder. “There’s the door,” he says, mildly. And then there’s silence. Because that’s it, isn’t it? That’s all the point Jim has to make. Sebastian’s not going to move. He’s not going to leave. He’s not going to shut Jim up permanently; not going to throw him to the police; not even going to tell Augustus about the cancer in the heart of the orchestra. He can’t. It’s that thing that’s been burning in him, ever since the opera. Ever since he first saw Jim. God, John is good – John is good in all the ways that Sebastian wishes he could be – but he doesn’t burn in Sebastian, not like Jim does.

Sometimes Sebastian thinks he doesn’t have space to feel anything, not around the white-hot mindless thing that Jim calls up from his stomach. Sebastian swallows hard past a lump that’s risen in his throat, not trusting himself to speak.

Jim watches the revelation take place on Sebastian’s face in polite silence. Leaving space for reaction. They share a moment in silence together, consecrating the truth of what has passed between them, before Jim opens his mouth again. His lips stick together briefly, and Sebastian can see the soft pink skin of them press and pull.

“That’s why I called you tonight.” Jim’s voice seems curiously pared down, again; not going for the mocking and theatrical. He states his case simply, almost ascetically; nothing left in his words but the content and truth. “I need help.”

“And why would you call me?”

That’s when Jim steps aside to reveal what’s resting on top of the stereo.

Still stating his case simply, Sebastian supposes. There isn’t a need for words. Sebastian knows what Jim’s asking the minute he sees it. The L129A1 sits on top of the stereo like a holy relic in a shrine, dull black barrel slick with oil from cleaning. It’s got Picatinny Rails, standard, but the attachments are loose; scattered around it like offerings. Waiting for Sebastian to customize it to his tastes.

Oh, _god,_ it goes through him like fire and ice.

He could. His fingers itch to. Sebastian knows this gun. Like the back of his hand, like breathing, like the taste of his own spit in his mouth. He knows the retort of it, the way it’s got a deep sharp bark not quite like the quick rattle-and-roll of a standard service rifle. He knows which sights he’d put on – Trijicon ACOG, for nostalgia’s sake, just like it was in the service. Sebastian knows how it would feel against his shoulder, the rock and the dig of it against his skin with a shot. He knows how his sweat would feel on the rubber of the sight, how his breath would cloud against the metal.

Jim is waiting in silence, but Sebastian can’t move. If he had to put a name to it – this, this is love, this is desire pure and holy. Like nothing else in the world, Sebastian wants to shoot that gun.

God, he wants to kill somebody.

Sebastian swallows thickly and then – only then – does Jim speak again. “I have business that needs taking care of,” he tells Sebastian. Quiet enough that it doesn’t quite manage to drag Sebastian’s eyes away from the gun. “She’s yours, for a shot. One shot.”

Slowly – tortuously – Sebastian manages to meet Jim’s gaze. Jim is watching steadily, a deep light stuck far back somewhere in the hollow sockets of his skull. He knows everything that’s gone through Sebastian’s head and heart; Seb doesn’t doubt it for a moment.

“Shoot her for me,” Jim whispers, as the song ends and the flat fades to silence. After the base, it’s deafening. “Sebastian, you _want_ to.”

It’s gentle; soft. It doesn’t leave room for disagreement. Sebastian steps forward, stumbling over the expensive carpet. He sees his violinist’s hands reaching out, stretching for the instruments of war. Longing, like a lover, for their touch.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

Up on the rooftops the air is clear and cold and somehow seems to have more oxygen than it ever did down below. Sebastian’s breath is nearly white in front of him.

Jim must have known he’d say yes, because the shot’s all set up already; there’s been a spotter here for hours, watching the mark’s apartment through a high-tech excuse for binoculars. One of Jim’s, of course. _Call me Valentyna,_ no last name, no hesitation. She’s a whip-thin thing with sharp hair and a Russian – or maybe Ukrainian – accent, who barely glances Sebastian over before gluing her eyes back to the binoculars and giving him sit-rep. She can’t be more than twenty-three, five-five on a good day and a hundred pounds dripping wet. She doesn’t question who Sebastian is.

Sebastian gets the feeling that nobody questions Jim.

“If this were a close-in kill, _He_ would take it,” she tells Sebastian, somehow managing to emphasize the capital H even though her voice is uniformly short and brusque. She comes across as rude, but Sebastian shrugs it off – _Russians_. He’s known enough composers and ballet dancers to dismiss it as part of business.

“Long distance is usually my job,” Valentyna is saying, “But I can not do it. You will have to. Here. Have a look.”

Without peeling herself from the view she points at a second pair of binoculars. Sebastian admires her blind aim. He picks them up and pops the lens caps off, feeling a little bit uncomfortable with a speaker wired to his ear. Like a kid make-believing at mafia.

The awkwardness disappears as soon as he finds the target; disappearing behind a wave of sheer, incredulous disbelief. “You’re kidding me.”

“He does not make jokes,” Valentyna replies, “Not about this, anyways.”

It’s a party. It’s a crowded party, nearly half a kilometer away, lit only by candlelight. The house the target is in is a grand old place, plenty of nooks and crannies, shielded from the street by two massive sycamore trees which sweep and blow in the wind like they belong on a Southern plantation. Sebastian thinks _Gone with the Wind,_ and Mozart, and – “Impossible.”

Somehow he just knows Valentyna is shaking her head. “He would not ask us if it was impossible.”

“He’s insane.”

“That is true.”

They share a companionable silence for a moment over Jim’s insanity. At least Sebastian thinks it’s companionable; hard to say, with a Russian. He watches the party idly through the scope, seeing people come and go drifting in and out of the rooms. A few of them are wearing small domino masks, black slits over their eyes. It must be a masquerade, he realizes; _nouveau riche_ playing at old-world glamour.

Augustus would never hold a masquerade. It simply wasn’t done. Too _gauche_.

Valentyna breaks the silence first. “Can you make it?” she asks.

Sebastian is forced to draw himself back to the problem at hand. He flexes his fingers, feeling the violin callouses against his palms. When Augustus had come after him in Afghanistan, Sebastian hadn’t gone easy. It was the first – and last – screaming fight he ever had with his father. Sebastian remembers bellowing at Augustus, _I am the best, I am the best they’ve ever had_ – like the simple fact of his expertise would change his father’s mind.

Seb could have been the best, maybe. If Augustus had let him stay.

When Sebastian shifts he can feel his scars and healing injuries, pulling at his skin. It makes him feel awkward, somehow; like his casing is too small for him. “I don’t know.”

“You’d better make it,” Valentyna amends. “He does not pay for failure, you know.”

Sebastian shoots a glance at her, but she’s not looking at him. She’s frowning, slightly. It’s an absentminded expression – like a scowl is something that happens to her face accidentally, when she’s not paying enough attention to stop it.

Sebastian sucks his lip in over his teeth, making a short sharp sound. “What’s the wind like?” Delaying tactic.

“Bad,” Valentyna replies. There’s another short silence. This time, they’re definitively commiserating.

Eventually, Sebastian says, “Shit.”

“He would not have sent you if it were not possible,” she repeats, although she can’t quite manage to sound like she believes it.

Sebastian snorts. “He’d send me to fail if he thought it was funny,” he tells Valentyna, and pushes himself to a sitting position. “Well, fuck it. Find the target.”

This time he knows Valentyna pulls away from the binoculars to stare at him. “You are going to try? Even though you think you cannot do it?”

Sebastian shrugs one shoulder, snapping open the latches of the rifle case. If he fails, Jim’ll laugh; Jim will discard him. That’s what happens to trash, after all; when you’re done, you find a bin. Jim will know better than to try to make Sebastian into anything more than what he is.

And after that –

After, if Seb fails, if he gets caught, Augustus will kill him. It isn’t even a question; if Sebastian is found with a gun in his hands he will disappear, quietly, into the cool black earth. “What’s the worst that can happen?” Sebastian asks, heavy with his own sense of irony. It wouldn’t be dying. Dying would feel like completion, at this point; like the finish line Augustus has been driving Sebastian towards since Mom ‘fell’ down those stairs. Sebastian pulls the rifle from the case, letting the weight of it snag his attention, and settles it on his lap for assembly. It smells of oil, of cold metal. There’s a certain elegant precision and beauty to the scent of it.

 _Cream and chrome,_ Sebastian thinks.

“Do not ask me that,” Valentyna replies. Her voice is dark and foreboding as storm clouds. Sebastian, by way of response, snaps the last part of the rifle into place.

“Let’s go.”

She moves out of the way and he lies down, taking his time settling into a comfortable position. The gun snugs into his shoulder perfectly, hugging the meat of his muscle like it was made to be there. Or maybe Sebastian was made to have it. The string-callouses on his fingers snag against the grip as he lines himself up, lowering his eye to the gun. Through the sights his cross-hairs trace the edge of the building achingly slow, Sebastian barely twitching his fingers. Move too fast and he’ll be looking a mile into the distance.

The trees between him and the target plie, bending gracefully back and forth like ballerinas at the barre. Sebastian’s lips part. He remembers the rhythm of shooting; how you have to pare your body down to the barest movements, the least interruption possible. Slow breath in, hold at the top. Long exhale. Hold at the bottom. _Aim with a hand, shoot with a mind, kill with a heart like artic ice –_

“Wind rising,” Valentyna says curtly. Sebastian doesn’t bother replying. Through the trees the lights of the party cast a gauzy glow; illuminating vague figures, shadow shapes in the decadent rooms. There’s something of the supernatural about it – ghost dancers, at a midnight masque where no human may be admitted.

 _Does that make it easier?_ Jim’s voice asks, in Sebastian’s ear. _If you pretend they aren’t human?_

 _No,_ Sebastian tells him. Seb can hear the grit of moon dust in his own mental voice, the white-silt sand of the desert that clung to his clothes for months after Augustus dragged him home. _It’s the humanity that matters. Sweat and filth, blood and bone –_

There’s desert-dust still under Sebastian’s skin, literal sense. The injuries on his side healed unclean, infection-hot and red, and Sebastian knows the moondust was there under the scabs when they closed. In him, somewhere deeper than Augustus’s blades could reach.

Slow breath in. Long exhale.

The target moves into sight. Sebastian corrects – a delicate twitch of the index finger, like he’s hitting A on the E string, staccato. It’s music, isn’t it? This? It’s rhythm and bass, it’s melody and soul.

“Steady,” Valentyna says.

Sebastian doesn’t need it; this is music, and he is the maestro. Flawless and sure.

When he pulls the trigger, Sebastian imagines the angelic choirs: the wings that sprout from his back and fling him upwards, a strident major chord against the diamond-bright sky.

“Mark,” Valentyna proclaims. In the same breath she’s moving, her lean wiry body uncoiling. She rolls herself to her feet and reaches out, grabbing at the equipment, dragging it forward into a pile. She looks like an animal building her nest. Sebastian can see the jerry-can of gasoline waiting at her ankle and his fingers tighten on the grip of the gun. If he knew there was going to be another one – if it wasn’t a matter of the last shot he’ll ever take –

_Don’t get sentimental on me._

With a stiff and uncomfortable feeling Sebastian forces himself to get up and start disassembling the weapon, tossing each piece one after the other onto Valentyna’s pile. They fall soundlessly, hitting the cloth fabric of her bag without bouncing. The clean matte metal absorbs light. Outside, it’s curiously still in the wake of the gunshot. Sebastian thinks there should be screaming. Maybe there is. A shrill note is ringing through his skull and he remembers hearing, once, that the ringing sound is something like dying cells. When your ears ring, it’s the last time you’ll ever hear that exact note ever again.

Valentyna dumps gasoline over the fire. The sound is sweet in Sebastian’s head, high and pure and evanescent. From that moment on, _The Puritani’s_ high F will smell like gasoline to Sebastian; like cement dust and the dusty moon-white smell of gunpowder fading from his fingertips.

Valentyna’s phone goes off and she pauses to check it, a frown caught between her eyebrows. After a moment, she glances up at Sebastian, then tucks the phone away. “He’s waiting,” she says. “Downstairs.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you just – “

“I have my own ways home,” Valentyna says, exasperated. She stops working again to slash the edge of one of her hands at Sebastian, pushing through the air in the direction of the door. “Are you stupid? _He’s_ waiting. Go!” Her sharp little face is pale in the uncertain light. As Sebastian lumbers awkwardly to his feet, she strikes a paper pack of matches – all at once – the phosphorus heads sparking in a great white climactic rush, casting blue and black shadows over the floor. She drops them on the gun, the duffel bag, the blanket where Sebastian had lain.

Orange light licks up the darkness and stretches  hungrily out for Sebastian, but he turns his back on it and walks towards the door.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

“A Maybach? Really?”

Jim leans forward in his reclined chair, and grins. “Richard Hammond said it was _wonderful._ I couldn’t help myself.” He points at the seat beside him. There’s champagne between the two chairs, white smoke still drifting from the mouth of the bottle like the barrel of a gun. “Look, it’s even got room for your ridiculous legs.”

Sebastian casts a dubious look at the driver, but the wail of sirens down the street make up his mind for him. He folds himself into the ostentatious car, and pulls the door shut behind him.

The world disappears into a sound-proof bubble of cream leather and dark-tinted glass. It smells of champagne in here, and mass-produced leather; sanitized and stale. Jim’s wearing a navy-blue suit to make himself stand out, only a shade or two above black. When he offers Sebastian a glass of champagne, the silver ring on his middle finger clinks companionably against the glass.

Jim, Sebastian can’t help thinking, is someone Augustus _would a_ pprove of. On the surface, at least. It’s the theatre of it all; the sense of the melodramatic and the banally profound. Sebastian takes the champagne.

“Cheers,” Jim tells him brightly. When Jim raises his glass it catches the light and sends it sparkling in a million directions. It’s good quality; Sebastian can tell from the smell and the diamond-gleam of the light reflected through its pale glimmering surface. He doesn’t drink.

“I’d thought we’d celebrate,” Jim continues, not needing Sebastian’s input. He kicks the divider, and the car rumbles sleepily into motion. It’s unnervingly quiet. The only sign Sebastian has that they’re moving at all is the buildings sliding by outside the smoky windows.

When he looks over, Jim’s watching him.

“How was it?” Jim asks. Serious again. His lips part slightly after the last word, and he blinks – slow, almost owlish. He looks insatiably curious, the sort of way people do when they really care what you’re about to say.

Sebastian thinks of angelic choirs, the Puritani high F, gasoline. Suddenly there don’t seem to be enough words in the air. He licks his lips. He doesn’t want to say anything. Wouldn’t it be worse – wouldn’t it have to be worse – to try and explain it? Sebastian can already hear himself fumbling with the words, painting a sloppy picture like a child with their first set of acrylics, ending to a lame _‘…I suppose.’_ He wants Jim to understand what he’d felt; the instinctive perfection of achieving his own personal evolutionary purpose. He wants to communicate it.

The Strad is sitting by Jim’s elbow rest; Sebastian wishes he could pick it up without words and play something. Surely there could be no failure of communication then; somewhere between the high F and the A on the E string, there’s something that could make Jim understand –

He should know better.

“Let me guess,” Jim interrupts. He has another bit of champagne, and makes a face at Sebastian. “Drink up. Don’t worry. Let me go.” The glass lowers from Jim’s pink lips and for a moment he considers Sebastian, then he decides – without a hint of hesitation – “You can’t quite remember why you ever thought you were alive without a gun in your hands.”

Sebastian takes a sip of champagne just as Jim is setting his down.

“You thought of me – of course you thought of me – and you liked Valentyna, she’s very _Russian_ , it was all very _cliché_ , in a way. But it suited you.” Jim looks away from Sebastian, out the window, and Sebastian can’t help feeling a little relieved. “Felt familiar,” Jim drawls, to the glass.

Without the pressure of Jim’s eyes on him it’s easier to speak. “You got me all figured out,” Sebastian mocks the back of Jim’s head, deadpan. He sees Jim glance at him in the reflection of the window, but Jim doesn’t turn back around. All Sebastian sees is the shallow curve of Jim’s nose: almost turned enough towards him to be in profile, but not quite. Like a reverse silhouette; the faint white sliver of his face painted against the black of the windows.

Always black and white with Jim: the drama of contrast. Sebastian wonders what he’s thinking.

“I have the world figured out.” Jim sounds bored. Abruptly – as if interrupting himself – he hops a little in the chair, a nervous movement, and ends up facing Sebastian. Leaning forward to pick his glass of champagne back up, Jim commands – “Tell me how you learned to shoot.”

The tension in the car has eased, a few hairs, enough that Sebastian feels comfortable responding dryly. “With a gun.”

“Clever.” Jim rolls his eyes. “Try again.”

The Maybach is its own self-contained world; there’s a little crystal ashtray and a fresh pack of cigarettes in the center console. Jim shakes one out for himself, a white coffin-nail with the tip edged in gold. Sebastian watches as Jim lights it, picking his words carefully. Lit from beneath, Jim’s face is hollow and skeletal; but there’s still that curious softness about it, something about the line of his cheeks and the sweep of his eyelashes. Something almost human lingers around the edges of Jim’s temples, wishing it was brave enough to stray over his eyes.

“I was eighteen,” Sebastian says, finally. He reaches over without asking and takes a cigarette from Jim’s pack. Before he can light it, though, Jim snags it from his fingers. Sebastian doesn’t even blink; he’s used to it now, that striking-snake quickness. Jim presses the smoke end to end with his own, inhaling so his cherry sparks up and the cigarettes burn each other down before he passes one back to Sebastian.

“I walked into the army recruitment office,” Sebastian starts. He can feel the words like a three-note chord, two layers of sound underneath the top one unspoken. _I had a bruise on my face so big my right eye was completely swollen shut, so they let me shoot lefty. I thought I’d rather die than go home._ “I told them I wanted to be posted to active combat duty as fast as possible.” _I never told them, but they knew. Everyone knew. My SO helped me with the emancipation paperwork. His name was Dean and he had big hands – huge, strong hands that had never hurt anyone who trusted him. I knew I wanted him from the moment he grabbed my chin and asked who the fuck was responsible for the mess._ “I shipped off to basic a week later.” _Faster than they had any right to send me, but they knew. Everyone knew._

“And you belonged,” Jim says, reading Sebastian’s mind. Ignoring the ashtray, he taps his smoke in the air over his knee; staining the priceless carpet. “And you were good at it. All that running around and shooting and snapping to attention. You were bred for it.” Outside, a green light changes to amber and red, and the car slows to a halt. Through the window, behind Jim’s head, Sebastian can’t make out anything but the strangest shadows; familiar objects reduced to smudges of black. “Was it really as simple as a pat on the head and a good time with the boys?” Jim asks. “Could I have had you from Augustus, for a dog-bone and a promise I’d be extra-special nice?” There’s no sign in his eyes if he’s laughing or not; Jim asks without inflection, without even a hint of mocking or forgiveness.

Sebastian rolls his cigarette between his fingertips, loosening the tobacco and pushing it out towards the low-burning cherry at the end. _Dean used to smoke foul-smelling Kurdish cigars and the hair on his chest was black and thick like a steel-wire forest._ “No,” Seb tells Jim. The car starts off again, rolling smoothly forward underneath them. Maybe basic was, in retrospect; maybe it was just the first place where he ever belonged. But – “It was the guns. I liked that. I liked being the predator, for once.” _I spent eighteen years as a deer in the headlights and when I kissed Dean for the first time his breath stopped entirely – I felt that, against my mouth, felt the moment he stopped moving for the sheer fragile wonder of touching **me.**_ “I liked that I was good at it.” _Every time I killed someone I felt that indrawn breath again. When you kill someone, you are the center of the world. To the dead, a murderer is god._  “I liked killing,” Sebastian admits.

“But he dragged you home,” Jim whispers, low and hypnotic.

“Yes,” Sebastian replies.

“Tell me,” Jim commands. Just that. Soft and gentle.

“I had a lover,” Sebastian replies. It’s more than he’s ever said to anyone. He shuts his eyes, let himself drift on the enchantment of Jim’s coaxing voice. “He came back to find me. Saw the blood and dishonorabled himself to chase me down.”

“Of course. You must have been _so_ precious to him.”

Sebastian sees the gun, clear as day. He’s completely under the spell, now. Relaxed and warm and calm, like he’s sunken under the surface of a heated sea. He feels his breathing start to slow. The gleam of light on the barrel. The kiss of the sun. Augustus’s voice in his ear. _You know what the choice is, Sebastian._ Sebastian’s feet planted in the fresh-mowed, soaking-wet grass of the mansion. England had been so alien after the desert that it took Sebastian years of reliving the memory to realize that it had smelled like rain. S _o choose._

And Sebastian had chosen.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I killed him. My lover.”

There’s a rustle of fabric as Jim leans forward in the seat. “Why, Sebastian?”

Sebastian can see the gleam of light on the barrel – feel the chill soak of his toes in his standard issue socks – he can smell that curious mixture of _wet_ and _living_ that he realized only later meant rain.

_You know what the choice is. So choose._

Sebastian can’t go past there; can’t let himself remember. He starts to open his eyes, his mouth already working on some lame excuse or cynical joke. _Maybe I got bored,_ he’s already starting to say, _I fancied myself a drummer_ –

When Sebastian’s eyes are halfway open he catches a blur of movement and before he can snap himself backwards Jim’s fingers grab his chin, hard, and squeeze. It’s painful – Jim digs his fingernails in, dragging his nails over Sebastian’s stubble until involuntary tears spring to the corners of Sebastian’s eyes. Sebastian snarls, fighting the weakness, and tries to jerk his head back.

Jim surges forward over the central console, one of his knees catching Sebastian’s champagne glass and smashing it into a hundred glittering pieces. He wraps his left fist in Sebastian’s hair, holding him there, pinned between Jim’s two hands.

 _“No,”_ he hisses.

Sebastian feels something flare in him like the phosphorous matches. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snarls at Jim, coldly.

“ _Feel_ it, Sebastian,” Jim insists. His eyes are narrow and glittering like the back of a beetle’s shell, and he gives his hand a twist – shaking Sebastian’s head for emphasis. “You killed him. _Why?”_

“Get _fucked,_ ” Sebastian snaps awkwardly past the pressure of Jim’s fingers on his jaw. He wrenches his head, but Jim’s grip is firm. Sebastian can feel his scalp pull on his face, scar tissue moving tight over the rumpled cartilage of his nose.

_“Why?”_

_“Shut up!”_ Sebastian roars. Helpless. Animal in a trap. He can’t go backwards; can’t free himself from Jim’s grip.

So he goes forward. He lunges, slamming Jim under him over the shattered champagne glasses all the way to the shadowy window. Sebastian’s bigger; the weight of his body carries them both, Jim’s heart trapped and fluttering against Sebastian’s chest like a bird.

Their lips crush together, and for a single throbbing heartbeat Sebastian has it all. Jim’s breath catches in Sebastian’s mouth, stunned into stillness. The coolness of the champagne glass lingers on Jim’s lips, and Sebastian rakes his teeth over it desperately, trying to shock Jim into motion.

He tastes Jim’s skin. Jim’s warm mouth, wet and open under his.

He feels the unmistakeable twitch of arousal against his thigh, and shoves himself closer between Jim’s legs – craving this, that last final oblivion.

And then Jim grabs a fistful of fire and slams it into Sebastian’s side.

The sudden agony of it takes Sebastian off guard; his brain is all lower-function so it seems like he feels the pain more. It strikes right through him to an undefended heart. His body reacts before he does – jerking away from the branding scream of his nerves. He over-balances, Jim kicks him in the kidney, and Sebastian falls over onto the floor of the Maybach with a dull and undignified thud.

“What the _fuck_ – “

There’s blood seeping through his shirt already, beading and falling onto the cream carpet. He can feel the shriek of his torn skin as he breathes. Jim’s got a fistful of glass; his fingers lined and shaded with his own blood and Sebastian’s. The champagne glass, Sebastian assumes. Jim didn't go for one clean shard. Broken crystal pokes out of his fist like wolverine claws, jagged and vicious on both sides. There’s three puncture wounds in Sebastian’s stomach and three corresponding slivers of glass cutting into Jim’s palm. He’s grabbing them tight, breathing hard. His eyes are steady, though; blown, but steady.

In the silence blood caresses down Jim's hand to the fine bone of his wrist. Jim sits upright, calmly, and shoves his hair into place with his clean hand. When he tries to drop the shards he can’t; they stick into his skin, lodged there by the force of his stabbing Sebastian.

“What the fuck,” Sebastian repeats, lower register, growling and rumbling with warning.

Jim doesn’t even look at him. There’s something disdainful about his expression now; a mild disinterest on the edge of contempt. “So close,” he comments, picking at the glass shards. He crosses his legs, right over left, toe of his right shoe pointed at Sebastian. “Now you have to sit on the floor like a bad dog.”

Sebastian takes the opportunity to look at the mess of his shirt and side, where his flesh is torn up and Jim’s blood and his are mixed into an insoluble paste. “You fucking _cut_ me,” he says, obviously. His stomach looks like he went a round with a bear. When he breathes, the vulnerable flesh quivers; torn edges soaked and soggy with his blood. He touches them, gingerly. Pain flares in his brain and the blood separates, tracing each individual line of his fingerprint.

“You tried to use sex to get out of answering my questions, darling, it was only fair.”

When Sebastian looks back up, Jim spares him a glance – just one – and Sebastian fancies there’s a shadow of disappointment in it. Like Jim was expecting more.

Sebastian grits his teeth and refuses to feel guilty.

After a moment, Jim kicks at the divider again. “Stop the car,” he calls, to the driver. To Sebastian, he says – curtly – “You’re taking this one home. Have it cleaned. Send me the bill.” When the car settles to a stop, Jim opens the door. Each one of his movements is curt, and Sebastian has the impression of simmering fury; like under the surface, Jim would deeply like to beat him bloody.

“Wait – “ Sebastian starts, before he can help himself.

Jim turns back, one hand still on the doorknob, and meets Sebastian’s eyes. It’s enough of an interruption on its own. Only when Sebastian is completely silent does Jim speak. “I want you to know, Sebastian – I want you to be _intimately_ aware – why I’m not fucking you tonight.” His expression is serious, almost heavy. There’s nothing lascivious or teasing in those eyes, not now; not even the languid indolence of satisfaction, that he’s got Sebastian on a string. Jim looks like a priest, telling his congregation the word of god.

Only, underneath it, there’s that deep and mysterious anger; like the shadow of a whale on the surface of the sea. “I don’t need to. Do you understand? What I’ve done – what _we’ve_ done – it means so much more to you than any cheap sex ever could.” His lilting voice is soft and enchanting on the words. Sebastian thinks of cats paws, of mist, thinks of the sweet sound of pan flutes and the smell of frost. Jim shakes his head, that swaying snake-like motion. “I could take you home,” he says, slow and deliberate, “I could take you home and _rend_ you. I could make you into whatever I wanted, and you wouldn’t even open your mouth to ask why. That's what you want, isn't it? To be nothing.”

Sebastian has nothing to say to that. _Please,_ maybe. God, he wants not to think.

Jim blinks, twice, the flickering motion of a candle in wind. “But you already were something, weren’t you? _Before_. You feel it when you pull a trigger and you definitely felt it when you watched your lover die.” Jim’s voice is getting terse again, now. Quicker with frustration. “I thought you were a toy and now I find, no, there was something more in you once. But _that_ isn’t what you’re offering me, is it? What would you have been tonight? A mindless drone? A dildo with a trigger finger attached? And you want _me_ to fuck _that?”_

Silence.

“You want **_me_** to fuck what you are now. Don’t make me laugh.” Jim straightens. Before he slams the door, he adds, “I’m not your father, Sebastian. I won't mistake a shell for a living thing.”

And he doesn’t look back.

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

“You’re late.”

“Well, you’re not fucking supposed to be here. So how’s that?”

Sebastian glares up at Severin angrily as he bends over to get the laces of his boots. Severin doesn’t say anything, but he raises an eyebrow – from Severin, that’s comment enough. The sky is starting to go light outside and the whole world is tinged with the dingy, mucousy colour of back-lit smog.  Sebastian’s mouth tastes like skipped sleep, a mud-flavored mix of grit and exhaustion.

“So, what do you want?” he asks. He left the Strad in Jim’s car. He hadn’t even thought about it. _This side up,_ pointing at the floor of the Maybach.

Severin hesitates. It’s not like him, and Sebastian might even be worried if the rest of the night hadn’t been – well, Jim’s. “ _What,_ Rin.”

As soon as it comes out of his mouth, Seb frowns. He must be tired. He hasn’t called Severin that since they were eight years old. He can see the word hit Severin’s face like a pebble into a pond, visible lines of effect rippling out and being rapidly stifled. It’s not even a flinch; it’s a might-have-been reaction, no more substantial than a whisper of breeze through fidgeting leaves.

“Father’s coming,” Severin says.

There’s that echo of childhood again; Augustus’s footsteps on the oak stairwell, curiously muted through the thick fabric of the carpet. The high ceilings of the manor echoing back only dull sounds, only dim things, the barest ghosts of vibration. Even the sounds of the Moran home were repressed; cobwebby things ponderous and strange under their own weight. _Father’s coming._ Severin’s face with a scabby black bruise crawling up it like ivy, whites showing clear around his sky-blue pupils. Twitchy pale bones of his fingers wrapped up in the hem of Sebastian’s shirt. _Father’s coming, I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me, Sebba, **please.**_

That was back when Severin was a victim. It can’t quite have the same ring to it anymore: _Father’s coming,_ subtext, _I called him._ Sebastian kicks his shoes over to the side, where they bang against the baseboard. “Why should I care what Augustus does?”

Severin stands, adjusting his suit. Augustus used to beat him black and blue for fidgeting. Sebastian can still see Severin’s finger linger on the button of his suit, as if he longs to play it back and forth between his nail and his thumb. He doesn’t; it’s a broken habit. Severin is all economical movements and smooth, slick grace. Like a snake. “We don’t intend on allowing you to step out of line again, Sebastian.”

It’s petty, but Sebastian’s too stuck in the past tonight: he can’t move away from the way Severin pronounces his name. Each syllable careful and concise, as if Severin has to remind himself what order they come in. _Suh- **bas** -tee-yun._ Even when Rin shortens it, it’s _Seb_ now; cutting himself off with the rest unsaid.

Sebastian can still hear him stuttering, stumbling, afraid. _Sebba, Sebba –_

_Choose._

Four seconds older. It shouldn’t feel like a lifetime. “Do you remember when I enlisted?” Sebastian asks.

Severin’s face shows no sign that he’s caught off guard. “Yes,” he replies, tonelessly.

“Do you remember what he did?”

“Yes.”

“And then afterwards – “

“Don’t make this his fault.” Severin makes a short gesture with his left hand, so reminiscent of Valentyna that Sebastian blinks. “If you had just listened – “

“I was _good!_ ” Sebastian is shouting. When did that happen? His fists are balled at his side and he’s shouting, really _shouting_ at Severin. Sebastian feels anger quiver like a living thing in his stomach; like when he pulled the trigger of Jim’s burner L129A1 he drove the bullet through himself, down where something wounded still lived. “I could have been something, Severin. I could have been _God._ ”

“A soldier,” Severin replies coolly. His face betrays no trace of sympathy. “Is that all you think you were born to become?”

“I had a shot. A real shot. I could have been happy.” Sebastian feels it like a knife-wound through his guts. “Not one guy in a hundred thousand has that chance.”

“You’re a Moran,” Severin says, simply, as if there’s nothing else to say.

"A conductor," Sebastian scoffs.

"Is that what you think?" Severin asks. There's an echo in there somewhere - Sebastian's heard that before - but he can't remember where. Not from Rin. "You should have known better.” Severin puts his hand in his suit pocket and when he pulls it out, he’s holding a pair of black leather gloves. Scuffed knuckles. Polished backs. “You still require correction.” There’s no phone here, no Augustus to give the order, but Severin’s going to do it anyways. Part of Sebastian can’t believe it; wants to think that like twins in the storybooks, there’s some sort of mystical connection between them. Some thread that can’t be broken, even after Augustus has spent twenty-odd years trampling them into the dirt. He doesn't want to believe that Severin is really going to hurt him again; mindless, obedient repetition.

“You think you can take me?” Seb sneers. Severin raises an eyebrow. _No contest_.

It isn’t. Sebastian doesn’t even raise his hands to defend himself as Severin reaches out to break his bones.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without spoilers, the ending scene of this chapter was stolen (with permission!) from an RP that I was doing with [barumonster](http://barumonster.tumblr.com) called "Garden of Eden" about the two boys growing up. I've changed some of the wording, and the context/symbolism of the scene in Sforzando is unique, but Baru came up with the idea. She wrote Sebastian's perspective the first time through so I've basically just combined Seb/Sev's perspective and fiddled with the exact wording. Anyways, go give her some love. It's a beautiful scene and I'm glad she let me steal it!
> 
> Hold on to your hats, kids. TW: The dog dies
> 
> EDIT: I nearly fucking forgot to link you to Hippano's fanart!!! [ Holy shit it's AMAZING?!](http://hippano.tumblr.com/post/132615557750/goingbadly-released-chapter-8-of-sforzando-and-i)

“We _can’t,”_ Severin pleads, standing on the top of the stairs.

Sebastian glances back over his shoulder, a grin flashing across his face. “Can’t we?”

 _“_ Seb _ba!”_

But Sebastian’s already gone, drumming down the steps.

The sky overhead is faultlessly blue and the sprawling grounds of the Moran mansion lay out before them like a bright green sea. It’s early in summer and the dew is still hanging around by mid-morning: Sebastian’s trainers sink into the lawn and get wet, instantly, blades of grass clinging to the soaked black fabric.

“Sebba,” Severin whines again, fingers twisted around the wrought-iron railing. Sebastian turns back. Severin’s face is pale, his perpetually messy dirty-blonde hair falling into his wide eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” Sebastian grins, teasing. Severin risks a glance over his shoulder at the mansion, and Sebastian can tell what he’s thinking. “Oh, _don’t,_ Rin. He’s in – “ _What was it called?_ “Malaya.” The word comes out confident but Sebastian doesn’t know that it’s right. It doesn’t matter. Father’s in some country or other on the far side of the world, terrorizing someone else for a change.

“He could be back,” Severin insists, nervous. He’s got three stitches in his eyebrow, skin red and swollen. When he pokes his toes at the first step on the landing, the motion is stiff. Broken rib. Still healing.

 _Pay attention,_ Augustus says, holding Severin a foot off the floor, one massive hand wrapped around Severin’s tiny wrist, _weakness, Sebastian, is pitiable._ Sebastian glares, hating Augustus, his broken arm cradled to his chest.

_Yes, Father. I see._

On the lawn, Sebastian straightens. Up in one of the dark windows of the manor he can see a ghostly white shape, a shadow moving on the curtains. “I’ll protect you,” he tells Severin firmly. Rin smiles, a wan expression that doesn’t reach his eyes. But he’s still wavering on the steps, and Sebastian frowns. Severin is smaller than he was yesterday. Incrementally, day by day, Sebastian thinks Severin is collapsing.

Under pressure, Severin goes paper-thin. His veins show through his skin, green-blue and swollen. In the sunlight, he looks like an invalid coming out of hospital for the first time in months. He looks like an old man in a child’s body.

Sebastian goes back up the stairs to him, leaving wet footprints on the stone. He reaches out, and takes Severin’s hand. Severin’s bony fingers fold tight around his. “Come on,” Sebastian says, with a reassuring smile. “I wanted to show you. I found a bird skull.”

Severin’s eyes light up with interest. It poured rain, all last week, and Severin’s injuries had been so infected that Sebastian couldn’t take him along outside. Rin’s whole face was red-hot, sickly yellow pus crusted in the fine hairs of his brow. Sebastian feels a vague thrust of guilt in his stomach, remembering, but he swallows it down.

“ _And,_ I found an arrow-head,” he boasts blithely, this time _knowing_ he’s wrong. “It’s probably from druids.”

Severin scoffs. “You didn’t find an arrowhead. It’s a rock,” he replies, with expert decisiveness.

“Arrowhead.”

“Rock.”

“ _Arrowhead,_ unless you prove me wrong.” Sebastian grins, knowing he’s won, and Severin laughs. The sound is weaker than it should be, but they both ignore it.

Rin squeezes Sebastian’s fingers, and lets go. “Okay,” he concedes. “If we’re quick.”

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

Jim leans over the piano keys, eyes shut, face wistful. He’s playing Bach’s _Come Sweet Death_ , haunting and beautiful, wringing each note for sorrow until even listening to it is exhausting. Jim sways into the music, moving his hips, black suit, white shirt open at his throat. His lips part.

He plays the longing chords, shuddering, fingers elegant and stretched on the keys like the bandage wrapped around his right hand is nothing but a decoration. He demands an explanation from each chord he plays, the soft notes of the melody weeping around him. It’s halting, hesitant, steps taken into a storm with no ending. It hangs around his slender shoulders like a dirge. His fingers dance on the weeping eight notes, an accusation, bewildered in the face of grief’s injustice. Jim’s arms shudder, slightly, as Bach’s score peters out under his fingers and starts again, a reprise.

The second time through it’s half-original improvisation, technical and precise, piano swelling up into raindrops of sound and dying away again, back to that awful yearning grief.

It is the single most _human_ thing Sebastian has ever heard. He can’t believe it’s coming from Jim.

Sebastian sets his bag on the stair and leans against the wall of the auditorium, listening. He wants to be derisive. _That psychopath, aping emotion…_ Seb watches as Jim reaches out, down the keyboard, bringing in the deep thrumming low notes of absolute despair. He wants to feel nothing but contempt for what Jim’s doing. After all, this isn’t – it can’t be – from anything like a heart: Jim hasn’t got one.

But still, if this is faked emotion, it’s better than any real emotion Sebastian has ever felt. He shuts his eyes to listen, giving himself over to it completely.

“He’s quite good,” Severin says from the doorway. It cuts straight through whatever enjoyment Sebastian might have felt. Seb opens his eyes, and looks over.

“That all you have to say? _Quite good?”_

Severin’s wearing another neat-cut suit, his hair slicked back, an expensive watch gleaming at his wrist. He looks sleek and pampered, like he hasn’t gone a day without food in his life. He is absolutely still, watching Jim. It makes Sebastian feel fidgety, and he has to reach up to scratch the back of his neck.

Severin frowns. “Well, he is.”

Underneath the cool modulated tone, if Sebastian really listened, he might be able to hear the implied inflection. Sebastian shuts his eyes again. Severin talks like a robot, all monotone, all emotion leached away. Sometimes, though, Sebastian can hear the way he might have said it, if –

_If –_

“Yeah,” Seb agrees, dropping the chain of thought. “He’s fantastic.” They stand together a moment, out of the way behind the seats. Sebastian knows without opening his eyes that Severin is straight-backed, chin up, not daring to lean on the wall. He can smell Severin, when he breathes in; a weird mix of the maid’s detergent and cold steel.

“You came to watch the practice?” Sebastian asks. Severin doesn’t immediately respond.

The whole thing – standing next to him – isn’t as agonizing as it should be: it’s been a week since that catastrophic night with Jim and Sebastian feels a distant sort of goodwill towards the world. The morning’s painkillers are warm and comforting in his blood and the agony of his broken cheek and collar-bones are unimportant. The sling holding his arm keeps it tight to his chest, anyways, not allowing enough movement for Sebastian to hurt himself. Another week and he’ll have it off.

Maybe he’ll text Jim, then. Maybe he’ll ask for another gun.

Jim ignores them splendidly, urging more and more out of the Bach until it hardly resembles its original composition at all. _Is this why he comes early?_ Sebastian wonders. _To remember how to be human, after his other work?_ Then, illogical and pathetic – _did he hope to catch me alone? Before –_

Sebastian shifts, uncomfortable with his own thoughts. He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He wants to drown in the music, in Jim’s beating heart laid bare. He feels like Jim’s tied a string around his insides and is pulling him. Wherever he goes, there’s that draw; that compulsion. And it’s this, more than anything, it’s Jim’s haunting and vicious genius. Sebastian breathes out. Jim’s fingers draw a series of sweet, lilting sounds from the keys, like begging. He plays like his kills look in the papers. No matter what Jim is, he is a pure thing: no imperfections or flaws in him.

If Sebastian thinks about it too much, he’s going to go mad and pull Jim aside after practice. Seb sneaks a look at Severin, but Severin shows no signs of wanting to talk. Needing a distraction, Sebastian falls back on the same old topic of conversation.

“You know he likes this,” Seb says, more than half because bringing it up will start a fight. _Stop me thinking about Jim –_ “He makes you do the dirty work just because he knows it’ll piss me off more.”

Severin sighs, looking put-upon. There’s no need for him to ask who Sebastian means by _he_. “Not everything is about you, Sebastian.” He folds his arms over his chest, standing his ground.

Sebastian has to fight a smile. He shuts his eyes again, content with the familiar irritation of the argument. “If _he_ showed up, I’d beat his ugly fucking face in –“

“Don’t be rash. He’ll be here in two weeks.”

That surprises Sebastian enough to make him slide one eye back open and look at Severin suspiciously. At first he thinks Severin is lying: but Rin is pale, staring at Jim with some deep-set fear clouding his iris. Only one person makes Severin look like that: pushed so far back inside his own head that all that’s left is dullness. If he feels Sebastian watching him, it doesn’t seem to matter: Rin doesn’t so much as glance away from Jim.

_Is he enthralled, or is he avoiding thinking about Augustus? Am I –_

Sebastian swallows, but Severin interrupts wherever Seb’s weird train of thought is going before it can even get started. “Besides, he sends me as punishment for _me._ ”

Through the haze of the pain killers, Sebastian registers a dim confusion. He blinks his eyes completely open to gawk at Severin. Severin continues – quieter, his face registering the barest twitch of uncomfortableness – “At times I have given Father reason to doubt my convictions.”

Sebastian, unable to help himself, scoffs. “We came from his balls, Severin, it doesn’t make him _Jesus.”_ He knows it will piss Severin off before he says it. Part of him feels guilty; wishes they could talk for thirty seconds without something breaking.

Mostly, though, he’d rather fight than think about Jim.

Frost slams down between them like a wall. Severin turns away from Jim to Sebastian. “I believe your practice should be beginning soon,” he says, icily. “If you’d like to do your job.” His face is a funhouse mirror of Sebastian’s; groomed within an inch of his life, his bones sharp and obvious over his clean-shaven cheeks. Even his eyes are well-mannered and kempt. There’s no light left in them at all; nothing as unruly as fire.

Sebastian feels his split lip twitch. “ _Can_ I?” he sneers. “With a broken arm and all?”

“Don’t be childish. Your _arm_ isn’t broken.”

“Just my collarbone.” Sebastian’s rewarded a hard pulse in the vein of Severin’s temple.

“As you wish,” Severin’s voice is calm, no matter what points Sebastian scores in their game. “Take a seat. I’ll inform Augustus you are too weak to perform.”

It’s a perfect shot, a three-point basket. “You’re a fucking freak,” Sebastian spits at Severin’s feet, stomping off to the stands.

And so they go, back and forth, starving dogs killing each other over bones while Augustus holds the key to the kitchen.

Sebastian doesn’t doubt that Jim’s listening.

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

John comes in the door too fast and it bangs off the wall, rebounding. It nearly hits the person behind him in the face. Sebastian sees a riot of black curls, swaying in surprise. Sherlock catches the rim of the door, opening his mouth to snap.

“Where have you _been?!”_ John yells. Sherlock stops with his mouth frozen in a perfect O, surprised. John’s shoulders are braced and furious as he stomps stiff-legged down the aisle. “A week – a whole _week –“_ He levels a pointing finger at the conductor’s stand, his cheeks going a bit pink. “I thought something happened!”

He can’t tell. At first glance – well, Sebastian doesn’t blame him.

Severin, standing at the conductor’s stand, turns to face John’s wrath. His fingers twitch at his sides. The Morans don’t take well to shouting – either of them. Different reasons, though. Different reactions. From his seat in the front row, Sebastian smiles ruthlessly. He’s not sure who’s the source of the bitter amusement in his chest. Maybe it’s Jim, paused over the piano, a horror-movie slasher in a neat-pressed suit. Maybe it’s Severin, his expression so carefully opaque that he looks like he’s gotten botox. Maybe it’s John that’s the funny one – poor John, stupid enough to love Sebastian.

 _Christ, what a mess_. It’s all hilarious, Seb’s sure, in a cynical sort of way. He wishes he had a drink.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Severin says calmly. The tone of his voice takes John up short and he stands there for a moment, gaping. Seb can almost hear the wheels in John’s head turning, and he takes pity. He raises his good hand and waves to John lethargically.

“Yep. Over here.”

John wheels on his heel, a sharp military movement, sees Sebastian in the stands and goes still. Sebastian doesn’t look at him. He watches John out of the corner of his eye, staring resolutely upwards at the ceiling. Through his peripheral vision he can see the concern on John’s face and he hates John. Bitter, venomous and hot as infection. _How dare he pity me?_ A muscle in Sebastian’s jaw twitches, and he forces himself to stillness. _Not the time to be losing control,_ although Christ knows he’s in the habit of doing it.

“Glad to see _you’re_ up to your usual standard,” Sherlock sniffs witheringly into the silence. He blows past them all to fetch his music stand, black coat billowing around him. As he goes he bumps John from behind, their shoulders making a soft noise like punctuation. John rocks off balance, but Sherlock doesn’t notice. “Oh, well, I suppose if we have a replacement conductor, it’s a good job he _looks_ the same –“

There couldn’t be a worse time for his bullshit. “Shut up, Holmes,” Sebastian says wearily. He’s pretty sure he’s wearing a hole in the ceiling, staring. He can feel John’s eyes burning through him in turn. It must be a fuck of a picture: the swollen, ugly mess of Sebastian’s cheek, the bandages wrapping Sebastian’s torso, the sling on Sebastian’s arm. Severin went overboard, this time. They had to go to a hospital. John must be goddamn _drinking_ it in, jumping to all sorts of conclusions.

 _Funny –_ Sebastian thinks – _Jim hasn’t looked at me at all, yet –_

He must know, right? Jim has to know.

“What,” John says, slowly, “Happened.” His voice is low and still furious, but Sebastian doesn’t know who it’s directed at anymore. It might be Sebastian. John has every right to be mad at him.

 _Don’t think about it._ The cushy theatre seats are much better than the orchestra’s cheap plastic: Sebastian wants to requisition one for later. There’s a pattern up in the gilt molding around the ceiling that Sebastian thinks might be Mycenaean, and he tilts his head trying to figure it out. _Don’t think._

Sherlock sets his stand in place and whirls, taking the steps two at a time to bend over Jim at the piano bench. Sebastian watches, pretending not to, as Jim looks up. It all seems so viciously clear: the sharp line of Jim’s jaw picked out in relief against the dark wool of Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock says something. Jim smiles, replying, and Sherlock’s striking pale eyes jump up to Sebastian. Sebastian sinks a little lower in his seat, tucking his chin in to his chest. _Fuck._ The vague undiscerning good will of the pain killers is fading fast, and there’s nothing in Sebastian to replace it.

Before matters can get any worse Sebastian hears a squeak of soles on wood and the door behind them is banging open again. The orchestra must be coming in –

He doesn’t notice John until John is dead in front of him, bending over, his capable hands reaching out to cup Sebastian’s face. “What happened?”

He’s so kind Sebastian can’t fucking stand it. It’s like holding a teacup in his hands. Sebastian already resents John’s heart for breaking.

“Take your seats, please,” Severin says, directed somewhere over Sebastian’s head to the rest of the orchestra. Sebastian can hear them start to whisper.

He jerks his chin sharply out of John’s hands. This is the last thing he needs – another fucking rumour. As if he doesn’t have enough to deal with. “Nothing _happened,_ John,” Seb snaps tersely. “Go sit down. We’ve got work to do.” He shoves down the nauseous feeling in his stomach long enough for his eyes to flick up and meet John’s, knowing his scowl comes off as defensive.

John’s wide eyes seem very blue as he stares at Sebastian. He has to be putting it on, Sebastian thinks. No one could possibly care about Seb that much. No one could be shocked when Sebastian acts like trash: after all, that’s all Sebastian is. John’s hands twitch as they fall back towards his side, curling around some invisible grip in the air. “Sebastian, you can’t keep acting like – “

“Mr. Watson, if you please.” And there we are: Severin to the rescue. Sebastian nods tightly, agreeing with the words. If he’s expecting it to put John off, he’s underestimated John again.

John straightens, drawing himself up to his full height with his shoulders squared and his chin high. He looks like a brick wall. If John’s expression is pitying, still, it’s not entirely sympathetic. There’s something hard about the corners of his mouth. “We have to talk about this,” he says.

Sebastian knows a line in the sand when he sees one. “Whatever you like,” he replies nonchalantly.

 _You wish he was more,_ Jim whispers in Sebastian’s memory. _How’s that working for you? Fucking your Johnny boy?_ Up above, in the back of the orchestra, Sebastian knows Jim’s watching. He knows Jim sees the way John straightens, awkward and hurt. The way Sebastian’s shoulders hunch protectively up to his ears.

Jim might be laughing at them, but Sebastian can’t bring himself to look.

“Sebastian,” Severin says, when they are seated, “With your permission…” Sebastian nods, and Severin turns to the orchestra. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he says, raising a hand for their attention. At the back of the room, John scowls; hunched forward over the drums with the sticks clutched in his hands like knives. Sebastian scoots lower in his chair again, grateful for the way that Severin’s holding their attention.

He is, after all, flawless. Exactly what Augustus wanted them both to be. What had Jim called them? The matched set?

“Sebastian has been involved in an accident,” Severin tells the orchestra, delicately. “As your first performance is drawing closer, our father – Augustus Moran – has asked me to step in and carry practice for a few days.” There’s scattered muttering, at that. A performance date hasn’t been announced yet. Severin, anticipating their concerns, continues in his monotone voice. “Augustus will be arriving to review the orchestra in two weeks’ time. At that date, he will assess your progress and assign a performance date.” Only Augustus: other orchestras know their performances months, years in advance.

Moran orchestras play when Augustus says they’re ready.

Tickets sell anyways, of course: the Moran orchestras are infamous. Sebastian chest aches with hatred and disgust. At the piano, Jim’s leg is jittering nervously; heel tapping against the floor. He’s watching Severin, of course. They all are.

Severin accepts the attention with cool, practiced disinterest. “My name is Severin Moran. I’ve conducted for the London and LA Philharmonics. I did a run of two months with Vienna Phil.” His chin lifts a little. Anyone else would think it’s pride; Sebastian knows it’s defiance. Severin isn’t listing his accomplishments so the orchestra will coo over him. He’s listing them because otherwise, he can’t bring himself to believe he deserves to be here. Augustus Moran’s golden child, never good enough for anyone. Least of all himself. Sebastian’s arm aches.

Severin pauses, waiting for someone to interrupt him, but nobody does. “We begin in the third movement, Largo,” he says, and raises his baton. Sebastian scans the orchestra; noticing how the musicians focus on Severin with varying degrees of boredom or apathy. _They don’t care who stands up there,_ Sebastian thinks. _Why would they? I’m nothing to them._

Jim, at the piano, glances upwards. For the first time, his dark eyes land on Sebastian. There’s something burning in them; something furious and huge and hungry, the same malicious beast that loomed over Sebastian in the hallway the first time they’d talked. Sebastian’s heart stutters, missing a beat. Jim’s eyes bore into him for what seems like forever but can only be a heartbeat; then Jim is looking away again.

Sebastian sees him make eye-contact with Sherlock, next. Something passes between them, wordless, and then Jim smiles. It’s an ugly expression. Sherlock nods, solidifying the agreement between them just as Severin gestures to the violins.

Whatever’s been communicated, it disappears when Sherlock puts his bow to the strings. Sound begins to fill the room. Sherlock leads them; the first violin guiding the strings soft and sad into the long, smooth notes of the opening. It’s elegant, graceful, the gentle sway of willow-branches. Severin, in front of them, rolls his wrist to guide them outwards into the room. His posture is what it always is, rigid and stiff, but his beckoning is the liquid, sensuous gesture of a lover. The sound drifts back and forth across the strings, ebbing and flowing like the shadows of leaves on grass. It’s a lazy sound, languid, the idyllic sound of childhood pleasure.

Funny, that they’re playing the third movement today.

Sebastian rests his chin on the knuckles of his good hand and watches Severin. Without a crowd, Severin has no need for practiced theatricality. He doesn’t seem to have much need for anything. He is minimalist, distilled, crystalline. Severin doesn’t even move with the music; his hips are motionless as stone. The only life in him at all is his long-fingered, graceful hands.

It’s enough. Severin lets the first strings have their way; settling dozy sound on the room like sunlight. Then two fingers flick out to the second violins. Sebastian knows what’s coming; they all do. The discordant tension that starts with the entrance of the second strings, the urgent feeling of sorrow welling up underneath that blissful summer day. It pushes at the first melody, turns that idyllic sound in on itself. Now they’re playing memories lost. Now they’re playing the bittersweet defeat of nostalgia. Here the brass –

Severin holds out a hand for them, and they come to him rumbling, a quiet undertone. Layers on layers of sound, all built underneath each other, like the sorrow of the third movement is an ancient thing emerging slowly from the earth. Severin curls his fist around the brass, raises it, pulling them free from the ground. A wall of sound responds to his motion, growing and growing, impossibly large, throwing the harried strings away in front of it. The violins scatter, terrified, as the brass pounds through – hard and militaristic as marching boots.

They hang there on the verge of disaster, breathless. But as abruptly as it closed, Severin’s fist opens. He releases them. The brass dies away again, sinking back into its grave, and the violins weep. The sound fades to almost nothing, reaching back again and again for that happy first melody but always falling just a little bit short.

It’s Jim who gives the cue for the woodwinds; a few stepping-stone notes from the piano and they come in, just as Sebastian told them to, waiting for Jim’s cue rather than the conductor’s. It nearly trips Severin up – it would have, if he wasn’t quite what he is. A lesser conductor would fail. Severin compensates quickly, lowering his hand on the strings and the brass to let the flutes take center.

It’s marvellously done. It should be impossible without rehearsal, without knowing what Jim’s going to do, and Sebastian doubts even three people in the room recognize Severin’s consummate skill. He’s conducting on his feet what Sebastian’s rehearsed for months, and making it look effortless.

Of course, Severin couldn’t do it with a second-rate orchestra. Sebastian, despite himself, is proud of them. The brass holds itself back behind the woodwinds and strings, careful of overwhelming them, that great wall of sound constantly restrained. It looms like a threat in the background, seeming to disappear for long bars at a time and then striding back in, pushing the strings before it into a crescendo from _piano_ into _forte ,_ then into the explosive crash of _sforzando –_ the sudden, unexpected leap in volume on a single chord. Even after the _sforzando,_ though, they never drown out that aching, sorrowful melody.

Sebastian is entranced. It’s something else, listening to them play in the stands as an audience member. Augustus could set the symphony date for tomorrow, and Sebastian would believe in this orchestra’s ability to bring down the house.

They say Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5 is about Stalin; about the fall of the Russian people to the greatest mass-murderer in history. Sebastian hears it, written into the sound, drawn out by each pair of hands on their multitude of instruments. A hundred hands holding innocent hope, the faith in their Father of Nations. Losing their grip when the military brass marches in, carrying armed betrayal.

Sebastian raises his eyes to Jim again. It’s not a very interesting piano part, the third movement; with Sebastian conducting, Jim would be improvising now. The other members of the orchestra must be half expecting it. Some of the brass are looking over to Jim in their spare moments, when the woodwinds and strings play alone. He’s oddly quiet. He hasn’t played anything that isn’t in the score.

He’s also watching Sebastian.

When he catches Sebastian looking back, Jim smiles and winks theatrically. _Boring,_ he mouths, shaking his head. Sebastian scowls, and shrugs one shoulder. Between them, on the conductor’s stand, Severin gestures for the strings to begin the long fall into despair.

Middle of the third movement. The part of the first violin turns into a wail, a forsaken scream. It writhes its way from the ceiling to the floor, twisting around the other instruments as it sinks into a collapse. Sherlock, in his seat at the front, has his eyes closed – his curls falling over his furrowed brow as he focuses on the sound. It’s beautiful. Technically precise. Flawless.

Severin urges him forward, letting the sound overwhelm the rest of the orchestra. It’s a delicate balance; he holds Sherlock on the edge of almost too much, loud and messy. If Sebastian doesn’t think it compares to _Come Sweet Death,_ he wouldn’t say that out loud. He wouldn’t bet money on it, either.

Sherlock’s violin climbs back up from its lowest point and teeters on the edge of a cliff, high strained notes that disappear entirely only to reappear, faster and furious, cutting brutally across the room. The third movement is four stages out of order – it is denial, depression, bargaining, and anger, with nothing but unfulfilled horror at the end. It would be flawless.

If it wasn’t for Jim.

Jim is _unnerving_ Sebastian. He’s also sticking exactly to his script. Severin leads them through their paces, testing every other member of the orchestra’s skill, and Jim sits at his piano docilely: playing nothing but Shostakovich’s penned-down Russian emotions. Severin beckons for the piano to play the final disconnected notes, alone before the last note of strings, and he doesn’t know how _little_ he’s asking from Jim.

Jim allows himself to be led, soft and quiet, dutifully obeying Severin’s direction.

Jim has never been better behaved, not since that very first practice, and something about the secret smile on his face makes Sebastian very, very nervous.

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

He finds out after the concert.

Severin’s gone to the washroom and Sebastian thinks he’ll do a last run through the building before he locks up. The concession stand is ominous in the dark, gleaming gold fixtures seeming to wink knowingly as Sebastian limps by. He scowls at them, scuffing his toes on the red carpet. There’s no one in the upper part of the hall, no one behind the wings. No one in the green room except a forest of mannequins, headless torsos grotesque and strange in the shadows. Sebastian opens the door and peers in on them, briefly, before locking the backstage up completely. It sends a shiver down his spine for no reason he can adequately explain, and he runs a hand over his neck. It shouldn’t bother him. People don’t look like mannequins when they’re headless; they go all limp, muscles and fat forming into strange shapes without life to animate them. Sebastian grimaces against the morbid thought, and opens the door to check the hall proper.

He immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Sebastian’d forgotten the look that had passed between Sherlock and Jim at the start of the concert, until that moment. He’d even forgotten that they were together. It’s one of those things that he’d expect Jim to set up just to be perverse; that night he walked in on Sherlock sucking Jim’s cock and Jim had mouthed, _Stay._ It could have been just an act. Couldn’t it? Couldn’t it have just been Jim messing?

Only here’s Sherlock, bent flat over the stage, his trousers shoved down around his thighs. Here’s Sherlock with a hand in his dishevelled curls, forcing his head down as his fingers scrabble at nothing and his body rocks with each thrust into him. Here’s Sherlock, gasping, moaning, flushed-red with his mouth open as he’s fucked, hard and brutal.

And here’s Jim, one fist in Sherlock’s hair, the other working out of sight beneath Sherlock’s torso. This time, he doesn’t look disaffected. His lips are wet. His pupils are blown. He tosses his head to get his hair out of his eyes, sweat-damp and grinning. This time, he doesn’t notice Sebastian. That, more than anything, convinces Sebastian to say. That and a horrible, yearning curiosity.

Suddenly – or maybe it’s not that suddenly at all – Sebastian wants to know exactly what Jim looks like when he fucks. He wants to be able to picture it.

As Sebastian watches something like a flinch runs over Jim’s face, and he can’t hold back a moan no matter how much he digs his teeth in to his lip. Sebastian sees that it costs him to try – the shudder through Jim’s shoulders. And then Jim’s hips are snapping forward again, harder, and Sherlock is crying out – his eyes squeezed shut.

The slap of flesh on flesh fills the room. “God,” Sherlock gasps, into the flat black surface of the stage, “Get on with it – “

“Ask me nicely,” Jim laughs, breathless, folding himself down over the curve of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s jacket is pushed up around his waist, leaving only the sliver of skin from his lower back to his upper thigh visible. They’re both still fully dressed. They must get off on this – the exhibition. They’ve planned for it. “Since I’m so kind – “ punctuating his words with a snap of his hips – “As to fuck you –“

Whatever he does with his hand, the one that’s hidden by Sherlock’s body, it makes Sherlock moan. It must be humiliating. Jim must _like_ humiliating him.

“Please,” Sherlock says, anyways.

And Sebastian is a hot, writhing mess of desire. He feels something twitch in his stomach, and the pulse of blood upwards through his thighs. There’s a point of no return, here. He knows he could stay. Some small noise might alert Jim to his presence, and he could sit here in the stands and watch them, one hand wrapped around his cock –

Sebastian makes a noise in his chest and turns sharply on his heel, heading for the door.

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

“So, it _does_ bother you!”

Jim runs a hand through his hair as he steps back into the hall, grinning. Sebastian looks up and stares at him in disbelief, and Jim laughs. He traipses his way down the aisle to where Sebastian is scrubbing the wet spot off the stage. The room reeks of ammonia now.

 _Better than sex,_ Sebastian thinks, _especially if it’s somebody else touching him –_

Jim’s halfway down the aisle and grinning like a ten-thousand-watt bulb. Sebastian straightens, turning so his shoulders are squared-off against Jim. Like they’re going to fight. God knows Sebastian wants to.

“Oh, come on…” Jim beams at Sebastian. He looks flawless. Like he’s never been touched. He’s come out of the washroom cleaned and brushed down again, for all the world like he’s just idling around the hall. There isn’t a trace of it on him – not the wet lips, not the flushed cheeks, not even a hint of lasciviousness left in his smile now that Sherlock’s gone.

“You won’t fuck me,” Sebastian spits at Jim’s feet in disgust, “But _he’s_ good enough.”

Jim’s black eyes remain unaltered as his grin widens. It’s a ghoulish, dishonest expression. “That’s about the gist of it, yeah.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs, a cutesy motion that wouldn’t be out of place on a teenage girl. “Whoops!”

Sebastian growls on his exhale without meaning to, and covers it by snapping, “He’s nothing but a first chair violinist in one of my father’s pet orchestras –“

“But he’s a _laugh,_ our Sherlock.” Jim’s head tilts. He’s still smiling, but there’s a curious and indulgent bend to it now; like he’s wondering how much of the conversation Sebastian can really understand. “Isn’t he pretty? And oh _my,_ he is _sharp_. He figured _you_ out in a matter of heartbeats.”

“You talked about me with Sherlock,” Sebastian says, in flat disgust.

“He asked me where you’d served in the army,” Jim replies. Slowly, his eyes focus on something in the middle distance. He’s still grinning absentmindedly, as if the expression has stuck on his face even though his thought pattern’s moved past it. “Then he asked if I thought you were behind the recent killings…”

Sebastian’s heart goes still. “What did you tell him?” He watches Jim warily.

“What?” Jim blinks, twice, then looks back up to meet Sebastian’s eyes and smiles dazzlingly. “Oh. You’re so _sweet,_ Sebastian. Do you think I’d turn you in? When you’ve done such a good job of covering for me?”

Taken aback, Sebastian doesn’t have a response ready. It didn’t even occur to him to consider that two sides of the same coin. It seems obvious that the rules that apply to him don’t apply to Jim.

Jim steps closer. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and adjusts Sebastian’s lapels. “You know, if you ever sort out what it is you want to be, you’re going to have to start doing brain puzzles. You’re not very quick.” He smooths Sebastian’s shirt, still smiling to himself, and retucks the fold of Sebastian’s breast pocket. Sebastian doesn’t dare speak. Jim’s deft fingers flutter over him, and if there’s no warmth in the touch Sebastian is generating enough heat for both of them. He’s burning.

Jim fixes the sling, next; a weird twist of the fabric in his fingers, and Sebastian’s arm hangs next to his body in a position that’s _comfortable._ He hadn’t even realized it was aching until the pain suddenly starts to ease.

When he’s satisfied, Jim looks up. He meets Sebastian’s eyes. He can’t have any way of knowing how dry Sebastian’s mouth has gone, but maybe he guesses, because he reaches up and traces the edge of Sebastian’s broken cheekbone.

“Oh, come on. He had to ask,” Jim explains, like Sebastian is a stupid child, his cutting tone out of place with the gentle brush of his fingers. “He had to ask who was responsible, Sebastian. Do you think, if you ever humpty-dumpty yourself back together, you will _ever_ have to ask me that?”

Sebastian would recognize Jim’s kills a mile away, but everyone’s anonymous when they have a gun. He opens his mouth to say so, and stops.

Sebastian _knows_ what Jim kills like. He recognizes the flavour of the violence in Jim: he can see it in every motion Jim makes. Jim kills like he changes the composer’s score to fit him, with the same unstoppable poetic sensibility running through every choice he makes. Ten years from now, if Augustus lets Sebastian survive that long, Seb will remember the _feeling_ of Jim’s art. When he sees the victims of it in the paper, Sebastian will hear the Liszt that Jim played on the first day of rehearsal; the barbed-wire flourishes Jim adds to Shostakovich. There’s almost a synesthetic sense of sameness to it, the music and the murder. And Sebastian – unlike Sherlock, unlike _anyone_ – he knows _both_ of them. Sebastian knows the musician and the murderer, the slender genius pianist and the inhuman monster who hires hitmen on Saturday nights.

“There,” Jim breathes, reading Sebastian’s mind again. He leans up on his tiptoes, and Sebastian feels the sweet warmth of Jim’s breath on his lips. Sebastian reaches out, letting his good hand rest on Jim’s hip, and Jim lets him –

“ _Stop.”_

It cracks like a whip between them. Jim pauses. And Sebastian goes, like a deer in the headlights, still. Weak flesh cowering before a ton of screaming metal.

The door of the hall clicks shut. “ _Sebastian,_ ” Severin demands, cold fury sharp in his voice. “What is going on here?”

For a moment, Sebastian digs in. His hand grinds down on Jim’s hips, holding Jim bruisingly tight. His breath catches in a snarl and he feels his fingertips dent Jim’s skin, pressing against the hard surface of bone. He’s not going to lose this. He won’t.

Then Jim sinks slowly back down to his heels. “Not yet,” he tells Sebastian, unhurried. “Don’t worry.” He steps back. Sebastian doesn’t even think of holding on; it doesn’t seem like the sort of thing Jim would tolerate. Jim slips through his fingers as easily as sand, and Sebastian – if Sebastian feels the ache of it, he refuses to admit it to himself.

Jim looks past Sebastian, to where Severin must be standing. “Excuse me,” he says, politely. Frozen silence is the only response. Then Jim is grabbing his coat and swirling it around his shoulders, heading for the door.

It swings shut behind them, and the latch snugs in with a click. Sebastian shuts his eyes for a long moment before he can bear to turn and face Severin.

“What was that?” Severin repeats. His face is blank and his hands hang loosely from his sides.

“Nothing,” Sebastian replies.

“Are you fucking him?”

Insult to injury, although Severin has no way of knowing that. Sebastian feels his jaw clench. “No, I’m not.”

“Is that the same way you’re not making a spectacle of yourself in bars?”

This time, Sebastian can’t help a flinch. He hates them both for it – himself for the moment of weakness and Severin for provoking it. His hands curl into fists, and he forces them to relax with an effort. “Really none of your business, isn’t it?”

“We can’t have a _scandal,_ Sebastian. You know Father wouldn’t be pleased – “

“Well if you’d prefer I fuck the theatre patrons for money – “

Sebastian doesn’t even see Severin start to move. There’s one thing Augustus gave him: Severin was never a quick child. Never graceful, never self-contained. As a man, he’s all of that; fast and neat and meticulous. He moves with the slow and cautious elegance of someone who has had clumsiness beaten out of them. His emotions are nothing but sophisticated shadows half-glimpsed beneath his mask. And his awkward, childish hesitations – his slow, off-kilter pace –

Augustus has taught Severin to move faster than rain in a thunderstorm. Sebastian catches the barest blur of motion, then Severin’s palm slams into his broken bone, and he is driven backwards with wrecking-ball force. All the air leaves Sebastian’s lungs at once. He stumbles, and the back of his knees hit the front-row chairs, and he collapses back against them with pain singing in every single one of his nerves.

“You are _deliberately_ disobeying,” Severin accuses, voice tight.

Sebastian knows this is the point where a sane man would say uncle. The pain isn’t just bad; it’s incapacitating. Sebastian’s vision is double. His tongue is thick in his mouth and there’s acidic bile in his throat, like he could vomit any moment.

“Well,” he grunts at Severin, barely able to form the syllables, “At least _one_ of us is _breeding stock – “_

Severin steps forward, a terse motion. He grabs Sebastian by the broken bone and hauls him upwards, and Sebastian screams – he can’t help it – it feels like Severin is going to rip the entire top half of his ribcage out through his shoulder. The skin tents under Severin’s grip. The bone creaks. The break grinds against itself, bone-end on bone-end, and it is – it is – it is –

Sebastian feels himself start to slip, blurry and burning, into madness. The world goes black.

When he comes to he’s collapsed in the seats, warm wet liquid seeping from his shoulder down his shirt. It can only be one or two seconds later. There’s a short black shadow wrestling with Severin, dragging him back from Sebastian, and for a moment – a treacherous moment – Sebastian thinks Jim has come to rescue him. His heart thuds in his chest and underneath the shock of the pain he feels a glowing, unbelievable joy. Jim came. Jim came to rescue him.

It’s not.

Of course. Why would Jim come back for Sebastian?

“Give me a reason,” John snarls, “Please, just one. Make another bloody move towards him, you sick bastard, make my _damn_ week– “

“Stay out of this, Watson,” Severin tells him coldly. There’s a threat in his words, but it’s not scary enough to matter. It couldn’t possibly be. There isn’t a fear in the world that’s strong enough to move deep-rooted, dependable John Watson.

“Like hell,” John replies. Sebastian gets a bleary impression of his face, flushed red with rage, but he can’t see more. The world is still strange and distant, swimming beneath the inky black haze of the pain in his shoulder.

“Watson – “ Severin starts to move, and Sebastian sees John shove him hard backwards.

“Stay where you are!” John yells. There’s murder in his voice; furious, wild and animal. A passion killer, not an artist. He’d beat Severin bloody for Sebastian, if Sebastian wanted it, but only because he couldn’t stand to see Sebastian hurt. He doesn’t yearn to kill, but he’d do it – in a heartbeat –

John pushes at Severin again, his hands harsh and angry, knocking Severin to the floor. He raises his fist, as if to strike –

And that’s it. That’s all Sebastian can let him do. “John.” It’s not loud enough. _Again._ “ _John._ ”

Seb’s voice isn’t much more than a gasp, but John hears him anyways – somehow. He leaves Severin and kneels quickly by Sebastian’s side, reaching out to pat gently at Sebastian’s injury like he can somehow press healing into the skin. It hurts, but Sebastian lets it.

“You can’t touch him,” Sebastian mumbles. “Not Rin.” The world spins dizzily on its axis. “Do you hear me, you can’t, touch Rin…” Something’s going strange. Sebastian hears his own voice echo in his ears, distorted and fuzzy.

“Sebastian?” John’s voice is quick and nervous. “Sebastian, stay with me. I’m here –“

“You can’t,” Sebastian manages, fingers scrabbling to grab John’s hand. He has to get the message across. Somehow. Before he falls under the darkness, he has to – he has to. “You can’t hurt him.”

His lips shape the words, over and over, and his brain sprawls drunkenly over the thought. You can’t ever hurt him. You can’t touch him you can’t hit him you can’t shoot him _so choose_ but you can’t touch him _so choose_ you can’t hurt him _I can’t not this please not this_ no one not ever not you and not not not not

 _So choose,_ Augustus says.

You can’t hurt him you can’t I won’t

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

It’s Sebastian’s fault, after all. Everything. Everything Severin is. That day on the steps, he coaxed Severin into the grass. He convinced Severin to come across the meadow to the forest and the river, hunting a sharp rock that looked like an arrow-head.

A triangle of stone. Is that all that doomed them?

They’re about a mile from the estate when Sebastian outpaces Severin. He stops, turning back, knowing instinctively that something is wrong. Severin is frozen, his eyes glued to the sky.

“Rin…?” Sebastian asks. “What is it?”

Severin doesn’t say anything. He just stares. Sebastian turns to see where he’s looking and catches the fluttering wings of a flock of birds, startled out of the trees. Their black shadows are stark against the blue sky.

Fear goes through Sebastian like wildfire, and he straightens.

“Seb…?” Severin asks, nervously.

There’s a sound, too. Something faint, just on the edges of Sebastian’s perception. Something that makes the hair on his arms prickle, as if a cold wind has started to blow. Sebastian opens his mouth, and shuts it again. He knows the look on Severin’s face; the open and obvious fear. He knows the sound, too, if he could just place it.

When he speaks, Sebastian’s voice is sharp. He’s terrified, too, before he even knows why. “What d’you see?”

“That almost… looks like…” Severin licks his lips. His mouth hangs open a little as he stares back in the direction of the house. Sebastian can see his fingers twitch as he frowns, concentrating.

There’s the sound again: so faint Sebastian half thinks he imagines it.

“I mean,” Severin says, “It sounds…”

Sebastian can feel the breeze on the back of his wrists, cool against the skin of his hands. He can hear the soft sound of the grass, moving in the wind, the drone of insects above the field. There’s a song-bird, somewhere far off towards the woods -

And the baying, ever so faint and distant, of hunting dogs.

Sebastian’s spine goes rigid.

Sebastian goes ice cold.

Something churns sickeningly in the pit of his stomach and he knows, he _knows._ Augustus has set the dogs on them.

Augustus’s dogs. They are not pets, these dogs: that fact is bred into the boys as soon as they are big enough to toddle around the house, pudgy baby fingers pulling at the kennel doors. The dogs are not pets. The dogs are not happy puppies, with wagging tails and soft, licking mouths, like Sebastian reads about in books. No, the hounds of the Moran house are razor-toothed, blooded in the field and trained to obey like extensions of the Moran’s will. Generations of dogs killing generations of rabbits for generations of stern, merciless men. They were purpose-built, to hunt down the weak things that offend the Moran Lords. Rolling eyes. Lolling jaws. Red tongues. The hounds are spit churned frothy with the gleeful hysteria of the hunt –

Sebastian doesn’t think. He doesn’t know if he even pauses to breathe. He grabs for Severin’s wrist and wraps his fingers around the bird-like bones, wrenching Severin around. No need to say run: Sebastian drags Severin forward and Severin stumbles along after him. It’s awkward and ungainly: Sebastian’s still nursing his broken arm and Severin’s got his broken ribs on top of his weakness ( _which is pathetic)_. They’ve got four knobby knees and four bony legs, two frantic hearts, maybe one good set of lungs between the two. Sebastian hauls at Rin as hard as he can, towards the stand of trees on the other side of the meadow. If they can get there – if they can climb –

They might avoid the dog’s teeth, if they don’t manage to avoid the punishment that’s walking after the pack on two legs. Sebastian doesn’t doubt for a second that Augustus would let the dogs run them to ground. Rip them to shreds. _He was supposed to be out of town –_

The trees and grass and blue sky all seem to whirl, a dizzying spiral around Sebastian. Somehow, with nightmarish slowness, he fumbles his way towards a running pace, pulling Severin behind him. Sebastian’s hand is clammy with sweat, his grip on Severin slippery and weak. Severin moans, past the choking wind, and Sebastian thinks of the dogs mouths: thick ropes of saliva between their gleaming teeth. He tries to force himself faster. It’s not working. Severin’s feet are too big for his body, his joints locked and clumsy and he can’t keep the pace – and he is falling behind –

Sebastian wrenches at Rin ruthlessly, ignoring the pain that jabs down his still-healing arm. He remembers a rabbit the hounds had brought down, the last time Dad had them out hunting. Severin hadn’t called the dogs off in time, and one of them - a new bitch still in the process of training - had torn the rabbit to shreds, rending it down to a thick pulp of red fur and intestine in seconds.

The treeline blurs in front of him and Sebastian realizes he is crying, hot helpless tears forcing their way down his cheeks. He’s full-out sobbing, choking his breaths past his fear. It might be the pain of running, or the awful unending fear. Sebastian can’t tell the difference between the two. The muscles in his thighs are burning and his feet are cold and numb, soaked-through from the dew, and with every step someone drives a knife through the shattered bone of Sebastian’s left arm. His vision is gone, too, his world seen through a lens of gleaming teardrop diamonds, refracting nothing but sun. Sebastian struggles for air. He stumbles, half-pulls Severin down after him, and rights himself with an effort.

The baying is close behind them, now. Seb can’t tell which direction. He’s breathing too hard; his snot, spit, and tears dripping down his face. _Is that my footsteps? Is that the dogs?_ Sebastian jerks his head back over his shoulder but he can't see anything on their trail, just the fine wave of Severin’s hair.

The look back costs them.

Sebastian never sees the hill coming.

It drops suddenly away beneath them like the earth has disappeared, and Sebastian’s feet go in two directions at once trying to break his speed. His heels turn out. He lets go of Severin instantly, throwing his arms to either side for balance, but it doesn’t matter: it was never going to matter. The grass beneath him might as well be ice underneath his tractionless shoes, and Sebastian sprawls forward, Severin tumbling after him, _Jack and Jill and Jack broke his crown and the red red bloody tongues of the dogs –_

Sebastian's shoulder slams into the forest floor and he rolls like a cartwheel, head over heels, right over left. His thoughts shatter. His body is a loose bag of bones and disconnected, screaming nerves. He hits hard on his spine and something sharp slashes through his side, a fiery jerk through his skin. For a moment, pain blazes through the darkness of his mind like the bright trail of a comet. Then there’s another flare of white as he skins his knee scraping to a halt on a rock, and another blooming out from his broken arm. Sebastian’s mind is no longer dark; it is brilliant, raging with the fires of his nerve-endings. The dogs are baying behind them. Sebastian tries to push himself up on his palms and only manages to scrape them angry and red.He falls back on his face in the mud with a gasp, splashing the black earth up around him. It smears through the wetness on his face, and Sebastian knuckles the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. He’s not going to give up. He’s not going to just lay here –

“Sebastian - “ Severin whimpers.

The hounds are calling again. Close, now. The tone of their voices has shifted, into that bright triumphant sound that signals the end of a hunt. Sebastian feels Severin reach out blindly, grasping at the fabric of Sebastian’s shirt. He pulls the hem until it drags on the wound in Sebastian’s side, and a nauseous wave of pain rises up over Sebastian’s head. Sebastian’s ears are ringing. Maybe he’s deaf. There’s something black floating across his vision –

Severin’s voice scratches at Sebastian, terrified and pleading, but Sebastian can’t make out the words.

Augustus will be on them now. Only a matter of moments; he’ll be right behind the dogs, striding across the field in his seven-league boots. A flash flood of apologies go through Sebastian’s brain, as his father’s face swims up in the front of his mind. In Sebastian’s head, Augustus is scowling. He is bloodred and dripping _lolling tongue sharp white fangs_ and Sebastian says _sorry so sorry_ but there’s nothing in him worth salvaging and the _red, red dogs –_

It can’t be anyone but Augustus. No one else would have called the dogs. No one else could make them listen.

Severin is still begging, mindless and desperate, his hands wrapped tight in Sebastian’s shirt like a lifeline. Like Sebastian could possibly save him. “Seb, tell me what to do. Seb – make it stop…” Part of Sebastian resents it – Augustus is coming for them like a storm at sea and Severin is going to shove Sebastian under just to try not to drown.

Sebastian sags to a kneeling position in the mud, not trusting himself to attempt standing. There’s something under his knee, and Sebastian looks down. It’s a triangle of stone, the edges scraped as if they’ve been whittled. It’s red, along one edge. Sebastian touches his hand to his side. There’s blood on his fingers. _It cut me,_ he thinks. When he looks up, the sky seems impossibly blue, the forest greener than painter’s tape. The nearest tree is only two feet away. They almost made it. They were so close.

When Sebastian is an adult, he will know that what he is going through is ‘shock.’

He’s breathing so heavily that his chest shudders, rising and falling too fast to stay stable. Still, he tries. He wraps the rock in his small fist and somehow manages to stumble to his feet. Severin’s fingers drop lifelessly from Sebastian’s shirt, lacking the strength to hold on. But that doesn’t matter. Sebastian is the strong one. Sebastian is the brave one. He has to make everything alright. He clutches the rock in his hand so tight that it cuts into his palm.

Seb takes a deep breath and tells Severin firmly, “It’s gunna be fine.”

Severin recoils back from the make-shift blade, eyes wide and terrified. “What are you - “

It’s all either of them has time for. The dogs come over the crest of the hill like a wave, tawny fur and snapping jaws and slick red tongues. Severin makes a short, strangled sound that doesn’t quite manage to be a scream, and kicks himself over in the mud trying to scramble to his feet. He grabs at Sebastian again, but Sebastian barely feels it. Seb’s mind is so full of frantic, animal-in-a-trap static that it’s gone white and calm again. He’s beyond fear, now. He can’t even think of Augustus. There’s nothing in his head but pure, incandescent clarity.

Blood seeps through his skin onto his shirt.

The dogs come on fast, barking so loud it vibrates through to Sebastian’s bones. They’re telling Augustus the prey is grounded. Sebastian can hear the hunter’s whistle – although he can’t pay attention enough to tell what command Augustus is sounding. He’s too focused on the dogs. He turns, slowly, holding the rock in his hand out to each one in turn. They circle him and Severin, panting, their jaws lolling like they’re silently laughing at him.

The whistle sounds again, and Augustus’s prize bitch lunges.

She’s fast – much faster than an eight year old child. She goes for Severin. The dogs must know, instinctively, that he’s the weaker one. He must reek of the fear that’s too big for Sebastian to feel. Severin doesn’t even have a chance to move before she’s on him, her jaws outstretched, reaching for his knee.

Somehow Sebastian jerks Severin back in time with a hand on the back of his shirt and the dog’s teeth snap closed on nothing, the sharp bone-on-bone sound louder than it seemed when they’d been the ones holding the whistles. She growls and jumps again, and this time they’re both ready. Severin falls back. And Sebastian – Sebastian, ever the reckless one, ever the brave one, ever the stupid one –

Sebastian swings his arm, the one holding the stone, in a thoughtless act of self-defence. He doesn’t know it at the time, but that is the moment he breaks Severin’s will. That is the moment he turns their mother into a comatose vegetable. That is the moment he kills Dean. He swings at the dog.

The bloody stone blurs through the air in front of him, fast off his desperation and hard off his fear. Sebastian sees it happen. Time slows. The blade sings through the air in a perfect, graceful arc, and then it swings through flesh, and then it is jammed – down to his knuckles – in the throat of Augustus’s favorite dog.

Sebastian feels her warm coarse fur brush his skin. He feels his eyes start to widen.

The dog yelps and flinches sideways, trying to change the direction of her jump at the last second. Her paws slip in the mud but she manages, jerking her body away from the sharp thorn of pain in her throat – and the knife pulls free –

And then there is blood, thick-red and vicious, churned into the muck. It gushes out with the beat of her strong heart, turning Sebastian’s shirt red in an instant. He feels it spatter over his hands, his cheekbone, sticking his hair to his forehead. The dog’s body jerks in the mud spastically, her big paws drumming blood into the earth. Sebastian is drowning in it; he can’t breathe without tasting it in his mouth, clogging up his nose like it’s scabbed over his face.

The dog twitches. She is still.

 _No,_ Sebastian thinks, desperately. The other dogs bay louder, wanting the kill, furious with her death. _No, Father, I didn’t, it wasn’t me, please oh god please._ Seb stumbles backwards, off-balance in horror. He’s panting again, his whole body red and spattered with gore. _No oh god no_

Sebastian sees Severin fall, crushed to the ground by a sudden unforgiving weight. _No no no_ – There’s another dog on him: it hits Severin high, paws scrabbling at his back and uncut nails digging painfully into his skin. Severin goes limp instantly. The dog rides his shoulders to the ground. It growls at his ear - a low, rumbling sound like thunder. When he cries out it takes his shoulder in its mouth, and Sebastian thinks – watching Severin’s shirt go dark with the dog’s saliva _– might as well be hanged for the sheep as the lamb and at least this way, this way Severin will keep his arm_ –

The second dog, Sebastian kills deliberately.

His grip on the rock is iron and his heart is steel. He grabs the dog by the ears and hauls it backwards, yelping, its long nails clawing rents into Severin’s fine shirt. Sebastian feels his teeth clench, knows they are bared in a death’s head grin. He sets the knife to the dog’s throat with all his eight-year-old strength and drags it hard across, mimicking the motion Augustus uses to kill deer.

 _No,_ Sebastian thinks, and somehow – that second time – the word has power in it. It is not pleading: it is a declaration. _No. You won’t hurt him._ For a split second, Sebastian knows what it means to stand for something.

But it’s a _pack_ of hounds, not a pair, and Severin is still on his face in the mud, unable to help. Another of the hounds jumps, knocking into Sebastian’s side, trying to push him down beside his brother. Sebastian catches himself by the skin of his teeth, swinging wildly with his stone to keep them back. They’re nervous, now. A reddish-brown bitch with white socks on her two forefeet snarls and steps forward, taking care not to come within reach of the blade. Her black lips lift up from her gums, long trails of saliva glistening on her teeth. She barks at Sebastian in warning, loud and sharp, spit flying from her jaws as she does. And there’s another one – a dappled dog on his left – circling around, trying to flank him –

Severin still hasn’t gotten up. Maybe he’s never going to. Sebastian can see him curled on his side in the mud, and hates him for it, a little. Two of them could fight off the dogs together, maybe.

If it were just the dogs.

Sebastian had forgotten Augustus, somehow, until the whistle sounds again. It’s right over them, now. The pack goes still, looking back the way they’d come. Sebastian follows their gaze, still shaking with the force of his breathing, his fist and the rock melded numbly together from the force of his grip.

Augustus Moran lifts his fingers to his lips and whistles again, repeating his call. Drawing off the hunt. He’s a big man, doubly so out of his slim cut suits. In a black wool jacket with his long hair drawn back from his face, Augustus looks craggy and foreboding as the cliffs of Dover. His sharp features are set in stern, furious lines. He’s clean-shaved, his only concession to modern style, and underneath his thick brows his eyes are pure stone; so dark and merciless a grey that in the right lights, they look black. His boots are spattered with mud, but he’s not breathing heavily. It’s beneath him. Weakness is for mortal men, something to be bred out of Morans like stutters or bad grades in maths. As he strides forwards the grass seems to bow to either side to try and escape him.

Sebastian _hates_ , with an intensity that makes him tremble.

“What have you done?” Augustus asks. His booming voice is lowered to a gravelly rumble, the very image of restraint.

Sebastian thought he was brave, but facing his father he wants to wet himself like a baby. Every thought suddenly goes silent. Augustus’s voice stabs through Sebastian effortlessly, stripping him of every inch of pride. Seb feels himself drop to his knees in the bloody muck, the knife falling from his fingers. His chest heaves, seeking air, but he feels like he gets nothing- he can't speak. He can't move. He can’t do anything but stare at Augustus, hating him, too afraid to speak.

The dogs go to Augustus and he holds out his hands like a king, letting them lick his rings. “I asked you a question, boy,” he says, not taking his eyes off Sebastian.

But it’s Severin that answers, scrambling to his feet. “I’m sorry!” he cries out, immediately. “I’m so sorry - it was an accident - “

“Shut up.” Augustus’s voice cuts across Severin’s effortlessly, and Severin falls back; as if he’s been physically struck. And oh, he _will_ be physically struck; it’s only a matter of time. Sebastian can see it in Augustus’s eyes as he takes in the dead dogs. They’re both going to be screaming tonight.

The hounds mill around Augustus’s feet like stormclouds around the eye of a hurricane. He steps calmly towards Severin and Sebastian and they follow him, not caring that he doesn’t bother with pats or rewards. Augustus is the dog’s Tsar – their god and king and father, like he is for the twins. They worship him, even though Augustus pays the dogs no more mind than he pays Severin. Their devotion is his due: beneath his notice. As Augustus looms over Sebastian they butt at his hands, whimpering, pleading for attention, and he ignores them spectacularly.

Sebastian stares at Augustus, and Augustus stares back. There’s no hint in his face of what he’s about to do. Sebastian wishes there was. He’s terrified. If he’d eaten anything today, Sebastian thinks he might be sick. Luckily his stomach is empty – Augustus loves his dogs, in his own cold demanding way. Sebastian has never done anything, _anything,_ that was as disobedient as harming a dog.

“Explain yourself,” Augustus demands of Sebastian again, after a long silence.

If he could go back to that moment, blood-stained and muddy, Sebastian would apologize. He would throw himself in the dirt and grovel at Augustus’s feet, forget all about that brush of triumph where he’d killed the second dog and for once in his life felt alive. It would have better for everyone if Sebastian had never known the heady taste of strength. Better for anyone if he’d broken, then and there, giving up any illusion that he could fight his way free.

If he could go back in time, Sebastian would be obedient. He’d be good. He’d lick Augustus’s shoes clean, he’d kennel himself with the dogs, he’d apologize every waking moment with every breath in his lungs.

Or he’d drive the hard stone of the arrowhead through his own throat. It would have been better. If only he’d died, instead of what he’d done.

“Explain yourself,” Augustus demands.

And Sebastian replies, “Fuck you.” Stolen words, taken from an American film or an older boy at school – Sebastian could never remember where he picked it up. But he says, “Fuck you,” and he sees in his father’s eyes that he’s earned himself a punishment beyond anything his eight year old mind could possibly have imagined.

It’s because of that that Augustus goes white with fury. Because of that, Sebastian is made of nothing but rotten wood. When Augustus drags him home just the force of Augustus’s grip is enough to snap Sebastian’s corroded wrist: soft flesh denting and fragile bone breaking under Augustus’s hands.

Because Sebastian can’t bring himself, even once, to be obedient, that’s the night Augustus first takes a blade to Sebastian.

God, Sebastian screams. He screams so much his mother can’t ignore it anymore. And because he says, _fuck you,_ she intervenes. And because she intervenes that’s the night Helena ‘falls’ – down those long, dark stairs, in the middle of the night. To Augustus, Helena said, _oh my god, what have you done to him,_ she said, _that’s it, we’re leaving, you bastard,_ she said, _you’ll never see either of them again, you monster._ And it was all Sebastian’s fault. His fault she fell: twisted a little to the left, so she landed on the soft spot of her skull and drove it in through the compassionate gray matter of her brain. It was Sebastian’s fault Helena was hollowed out, left as nothing more than a living corpse with a few dreamy fragments of thought remaining in her empty skull.

Because he said, _fuck you._

Augustus made sure Sebastian knew: he held Sebastian by the shoulder at her bedside, listening to the monitor beep out the façade of her heartbeat. “Pay attention,” he told Sebastian. Severin stood behind them, pale, exhausted by crying. “No one threatens me. No one takes what is mine. No one disobeys me. Do you understand?”

“Fuck you,” Sebastian replied, not realizing yet that it had all been his fault. He jerked himself away and ran, out of the hospital, away from the ghost of his mother. Back in that haunted white room Augustus frowned.

He turned his attention to Severin.

And that, too, was Sebastian’s fault.


	10. Chapter 10

**2 Weeks Later -**

Sebastian snubs his cigarette out on the pavement and stretches, rolling his shoulders until they pop. He’s still a little stiff, but it’s getting better: there’s only a twinge, in his collar, as he reaches for the door. Inside his hall he wriggles his fingers with only the slightest impression of pins and needles. They’re cold, more than anything, and Sebastian cups his hands around his face to blow into his palms.

“Feeling the weather in those old bones?” Jim asks, sardonically.

Sebastian turns. Jim’s leaned against a pillar near the entrance in a long black coat, a grey silk scarf knotted carelessly around his neck. He looks like an ad for expensive cologne, or mid-range cars.

“What do you want?” Sebastian asks, warily, eyeing Jim like a suspicious package by the side of the road. His hands drop away from his face and fall to his sides. He can’t figure out what to do with them from there, so he shoves them in his pockets. There’s a bit of change down there, from the feel of it, a pack of smokes with the plastic still on and the cool curve of a lighter.

Jim pushes himself off the pillar and saunters over, grinning to himself at some private joke. “Missed you at my last little party,” he tells Sebastian, tilting his head up so the line of his jaw matches Sebastian’s. Body-language trick; indicating interest. Sebastian grits his teeth. Jim’s _last little party_ was another murder – a bad cello player in a competing orchestra now dead, his bow as his new spine.

Sebastian’s not in the mood today; not for Jim and his tricks or the cagey feeling that swirls in Sebastian’s chest whenever he thinks about that night with the L129A1. “Got to stop inviting me to those,” he tells Jim curtly, and turns back to the doors of the auditorium.

Sebastian pushes the left side open and stomps through, shaking the water from his coat. Jim catches the rim of the door behind him to stop it from shutting, refusing to take the hint. “But you liked it so much the first time,” he teases Sebastian. Christ, he’s going for blood today.

Seb doesn’t get a look in the hall; he’s too busy shooting a glare over his shoulder. “Don’t start this here, Jim. Things have changed – “

“So, was it _fuck me_ or _save me?_ ” Jim interrupts, impatiently. That brings Sebastian up short and they stop together, at the top of the long ramp that leads to the stage. There’s a few people inside already, warming up, faint music twining around Sebastian’s legs. Jim ignores them. He steps closer, until Sebastian can smell the spice of his cologne. “Which prayer did I fail to answer, _fuck me,_ or _save me?”_ The shape of his lips around the word _fuck_ is obscene and desire churns in Sebastian’s stomach. The only reason Seb doesn’t step back is that Jim would know, instantly, why he had.

“Or was it both?” Jim continues, with the cheerful air of a man eviscerating a pig for dinner, “Were you hoping I was your father and your college girlfriend, all rolled –” He’s practically glutting himself on it now, gloating, his wild grin slashed ear to ear like a Chelsea smile. Sebastian recoils in disgust.

That makes Jim laugh, and Sebastian wants to hit him for it. “Oh, come on –“ Jim giggles, opening his mouth to rile Sebastian up further. Sebastian darts forward – a quick step and a snap of his hand and he’s got his fingers brushing the lapel of Jim’s jacket, ready to grab. _Haul Jim up, teeth to teeth breathe him in and tell him don’t you fucking dare with me now, when you left me –_

And the door opens, nearly knocking the back of Jim’s heels.

“Seb! Hey –”

Sebastian snatches his fingers away, moving backwards. In the same motion, Jim steps forward to avoid the door. _The cavalry,_ Sebastian thinks, watching a slight frown flick over Jim’s face _._ They both turn to see who it is, even though they both already know; two synchronized motions, in quick succession. Sebastian purposefully doesn’t think about it.

“Bloody chill out there,” John announces to the pair of them, coming in breathless and steaming from the cold. “Not interrupting, I hope?”

Jim tilts his head, and John mistakes it for a nod with good-natured humour. He’s smiling widely, no guesses why, and Sebastian forces an answering smile onto his face. John pulls his coat off as the door swings shut, and makes a bee-line for Sebastian. Sebastian takes the hand that was reaching for Jim. He stretches it out to John, as if that’s the most natural thing in the world.

Jim steps back again, almost to the seats now, putting some distance between them as Sebastian leans down to steal a kiss from John. The kiss is quick, perfunctory, nothing more than the feel of John’s smile and the rasp of his stubble before John steps back. He’s startlingly uncomfortable with public displays of affection, for a caring bloke. Sebastian finds it endearing.

Sebastian finds a lot of things about John endearing. It might even be worth pretending to love John, to spend the rest of their lives together. Seb wants it, he thinks, sometimes. Companionship and warmth and laughter. All he has to give up is the ridiculous notion that passion is supposed to burn in you like a forest fire. _Love’s a small sacrifice to keep him,_ Sebastian thinks, watching John rub his hands together.

Seb hasn’t forgotten Jim of course. Jim, blood-red and steaming like the inside of a heart. Like a dog’s tongue.

“ _Bloody_ cold,” John repeats, looking between Sebastian and Jim. “Everyone else down there already?”

“Not yet.” Sebastian risks a glance at Jim, finally, but Jim’s impassive; he might as well be watching bad TV. Sebastian turns his interest back to John, trying not to think too much about it. “Let’s go down, though, we can work on that bit you wanted to add – “ he puts his hand on the small of John’s back as he turns away, steering John down the aisle. It’s a cheap move, and Sebastian knows it. It’s possessive.

 _He belongs to me,_ it says. By implication, _I belong to him._

Jim’s eyes bore into the back of Sebastian’s head furiously. A memory flicks through Sebastian’s head like Jim’s thrust it there with the heat of his gaze. It’s the green room of the opera house, more vivid than the auditorium they’re standing in. Jim is folded over in the chair, kissing Sebastian like he can only breathe the air from Sebastian’s mouth. _I thought I could leave you to him,_ Jim said, _but I’m sorry, that’s not going to happen._

Seb looks back over John’s head, but Jim is already turned away.

 _But you did leave me to him,_ Sebastian thinks. _And see where that got us?_

Seb follows John down through the rows towards the orchestra, and he doesn’t look back twice. The atmosphere is relaxed; it’s the second practice Sebastian’s been back and he was carefully lax on them the first time. It’s softened whatever resentment they might feel. Jim helps - as much as Sebastian hates to admit it. When Sebastian’s conducting, Jim improvises. And that…

Everyone’s feeling good about Shostakovich now: they might even be ready, when Augustus sets a date for the final performance. Jim’s a bloody good piano player, if nothing else. Sebastian resists the urge to glance over his shoulder. He can hear Jim’s footsteps behind him.

_Why are you doing this to yourself?_

Sebastian finds himself noticing, bizarrely, a prickly bit of John’s hair catching on the back of his shirt. He’d rushed, shaving. Sebastian wonders why. It’s a lazy, lonely thought. Seb feels dull and sort of muggy, like he’s moving through a thick fog. He has, since – well. Since _then._

John must feel Sebastian’s eyes on him, because he looks back and smiles. He doesn’t notice anything wrong with Sebastian. “You’re feeling better,” he says, quietly, for their ears alone.

He can be so fucking blind, sometimes. Behind them, Jim stifles a giggle and Sebastian shrugs his shoulders irritably, trying to put them both off the scent. “Severin’s out of town,” he says.

There are two people outside the Moran family that would know what that means to Sebastian. One of them buys it. The other one hops a step and skips, overtaking them up the stairs, heading to his spot at the piano. Another neat-cut suit today, for Jim; the subtlest purple-on-black pinstripe, to make him look decadent and menacing.

John is scowling, halfway through a thunderous tirade, and Sebastian tunes back in with an effort as Jim takes his seat at the piano.

“ – don’t know why you won’t let me call the cops.”

They’ve been over this; over this, around this, through this, when they weren’t making love or playing music at Collin Campbell’s. It’s all they seem to talk about, and it feels old on Sebastian’s shoulders. He sighs. “It’s not Severin’s fault, really,” he says, avoiding anything else. He can’t blame Severin. But that’s too sensitive to try and say with words; Sebastian knows he would only fuck it up. He wishes he had his violin – but what would he play? How could he play the _red, red, red_ of the dogs, the blue of the sky, Augustus’s seven-league boots and the safe green trees just two feet away?

“Well whose fault is it, then?” John asks.

 _Mine,_ Sebastian thinks, shaking himself out of his reverie, but he doesn’t say anything. John gives him a slanted look, all tilted head and reproving eyes. Sebastian smiles weakly back as John drops heavily into his seat in front of the drums.

“Play the bit you were thinking, for me?” Seb asks. It’s the right time for an apology, but he’s the wrong person; it’s sitting badly on the top of his stomach, not wanting to come up into his mouth.

After a moment John huffs and smiles back. “I was thinking about the first day we spoke – “

Without preamble John reaches for the timpani mallets. He swings himself over to the big drums with a push of his foot, and looks back at Sebastian. “Do you remember?”

_The loud boom of the drums getting the attention of the room, John’s steady hands and sure smile and the cool taste of beer like a blessing, and he felt like pure warmth when he smiled –_

“Of course I remember. We went to Collin Campbell’s afterwards.” Sebastian grabs a stool and pulls it up alongside the edge of the drum kit, where he can still keep an eye on the rest of the room. It puts his back to Jim, and some of the hairs on the back of his neck rise, but Sebastian purposefully ignores that.

John grins, appeased. “Right. So, in the second movement, when Jim’s doing,” John waves a hand, “That creepy thing he does, that’s not in the score –“ He picks up the mallets, letting the weight of them move a bit in his palm to get the feeling, and then starts playing. It’s a low, _pianissimo_ rumble, and Sebastian frowns – trying to hear in his head what it will be like underneath Jim’s spidery intricate improvisations.

He doesn’t need to bother; as soon as the thought pops into his head, the music is there. For a moment, Sebastian thinks he’s imagining it. Calling at Jim so hard that he actually appears; listening to unreal notes with a force that makes them audible. But John grins, too, and looks up over Sebastian’s shoulder.

Sebastian twists to watch, half-disbelieving. Jim, at the piano, has his head tilted to the side and lowered, slightly, to rest his cheek in his shoulder as he plays. The piano steps lightly into beat with the drums like a ballerina _en pointe_ across the stage, heading to her partner. It’s unbelievable. To pick, out of an hour long piece, the one place John was thinking of – based on a timpani beat alone, that isn’t in the script –

Sebastian sits in awe. He forgets even to want Jim; he’s captivated by the sheer, implacable force of Jim’s brilliance. Jim’s eyes are shut; listening with intense concentration to the roll of John’s drums. After a moment, he opens his eyes. Those thick lashes part slowly, reluctantly, and through them Sebastian can see the dark glimmer of Jim’s eyes. Watching John. That’s when it really hits home: what they’re doing together isn’t just marvelous because they shouldn’t be able to _improvise_ this sort of coordination.

In itself – in its own right, just piano and percussion, lonely in the big room – it makes Sebastian’s breathing go shallow. He is reminded that he, in his heart, used to love music.

The ‘creepy thing’ Jim does is a series of minor notes, soft and clearly defined, that should sound disconnected but don’t. They form the points of a delicate web of sound under the rest of the orchestra in the second movement, underlying everything, emphasizing the disquieting feel of the melody. It’s crisp notes – light notes – little silvery fragments of sound that slowly connect down the edges of the scales and add up into a series of larger, threatening chords just as the brass comes in. To it, John’s drums add a roil of purpose; the sense that not only is this web coming together, but it is coming together around Sebastian. The drums march Jim’s sweet little knives of sound forward, turning them into flechettes and rain. Directed. Deadly.

It’s good – it’s more than good. Written down and published, it could win awards. Sebastian nods to himself, fingers tapping lightly against his thigh. This isn’t in the score – _most_ of what Jim’s doing isn’t, when Sebastian conducts – but they can slide it in under the rest of the orchestra without needing more rehearsals and nothing more than a warning scrawled on the sheet music for the brass to hold volume.

If Shostakovich didn’t picture when he was composing, it’s because he was writing the communist takeover from inside Russia – writing genocide from the inside-out, too close to make out the devastating _purpose_ of it all. And to that come John and Moriarty, the soldier and the killer, to show all the horrible ways which this sorrow was _meant_ to happen. John the soldier, watching it build as a landslide of timpani, an unstoppable force on the horizon that humanity could not dodge. And Moriarty, drawing those cold notes of cruelty together at the top of the scale, a web of intrigue and intent in the nooks and crannies where no one will look.

 _Of course,_ Sebastian thinks, _it is them._

Moriarty reaches the crescendo of his movement and stops, almost mid-note, abruptly letting the build die away. John carries on a few rumbles more – the settling of earth after a quake. Then silence.

In the stillness they grin at each other, and Sebastian has never been more aware of the contrast between them; the black and gold, malice under Jim’s smile and forgiveness in John’s. Sebastian realizes the rest of the orchestra has stopped playing to listen, and takes a breath. He feels like he needs it. It’s almost dizzying, what they’ve just created together.

Seb has to say something. “We’ll play it.” The words sound lame, but Sebastian repeats them, louder, for the benefit of the crowd – “We’ll play that, under the second movement.” He straightens, and turns to look at them – and there’s two men in long black coats standing by the door – and Sebastian _should_ have time to recognize them and stop himself speaking but somehow, like a car crash, he doesn’t do anything in time. “These two can add it in without you rehearsing, so just try to keep with the score,” he finishes. “Brass, we’ll have a warning for you, you’ll need to watch your – “

And, by the door, Augustus Moran raises his head, his dark grey eyes catching the light.

He is looking at Sebastian.

Sebastian’s heart goes cold.

He doesn’t know what the rest of the orchestra thinks of that moment; doesn’t have the strength to drag his eyes away from Augustus. He can’t even decipher their whispers. There’s nothing in Sebastian but the rush of blood in his ears. Everything else – stomach, heart, bones – is water; it flows out his feet into the ground and away, carried by a fear that’s been building for twenty years.

Out of the corner of Sebastian’s eye he sees Jim turning on the piano bench, peripheral vision, nothing more than a blur. Severin leans over and whispers something in Augustus’s ear, to which Augustus nods. He’s wearing a suit under his coat; buttoned up close to his chin, the wrinkled skin of his neck caught tight under the white starched line of his shirt like a priest’s collar. At his side, even Severin looks shabby.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” someone says –it could be the goddamn queen for all Sebastian knows – “We have a guest. Our benefactor is here for a visit – Augustus Moran!”

And around Sebastian’s unresponsive body, the orchestra erupts into applause.

_\- -_

“Look at you,” Someone has their hand around his wrist. “So weak the _sight_ of him shuts you down.” Sebastian looks slowly to his left, and down. Jim is there; gripping Sebastian so tight Seb’s bones grind together. He speaks in a sharp hissing whisper under the applause, black eyes bright and feverish. “Poor daddy broke you so badly you can’t even _move_ in his glorious presence?”

Sebastian wrenches his arm out of Jim’s grip. For a second anger beats sharp enough in his temples that it wipes back the fear, and he snarls, “Take your seat, _Moriarty.”_

Jim’s face stretches in something like bleak humor. “Why? Don’t you need someone to catch you if you faint?”

Sebastian wants to punch him, but he can’t – not with the orchestra and Augustus watching. Instead, he squares his shoulders and tells Jim firmly, “Sit down or you’ll sit _out.”_

Jim grins. He raises his hands in a mock gesture of surrender, and backs away instantly. It’s an easy victory, and Sebastian would wonder why, but the applause is dying out. He can’t be frozen any more. He can’t afford to be. Besides, he’s coming out of shock hard with an anger hard like iron stiffening his watery bones.

Sebastian turns slowly to Augustus. He can feel his knees and spine lock, his chin lifting, defiant and proud. “Augustus,” he says, loud enough to carry, “To what do we owe the honor?” Somehow, he finds the strength to face down his father’s flinty stare.

“Sebastian.”

Same old voice. Same old Da. He’s grown a mustache, since Sebastian saw him last, and has stubble on his cheeks. It suits him. He looks like the grizzled veteran of some old, colonial war. “I came to see how my orchestra is doing. These… improvisations.” It’s a full stop before a complete sentence, cutting off the bit where a question might be. He’s waiting for Sebastian to finish the thought.

_Explain yourself._

At Augustus’s side, Severin shifts. Sebastian, somehow, finds the courage not to flinch. “I have two very talented musicians in my orchestra.” He amends, “Well, I have a few,” to scattered nervous laughter. Augustus doesn’t smile. Sebastian resists the urge to lick his lips before he continues. “They’ve been working on augmenting the score, and I think it’s worth exploring. This is – “ gesturing behind him at John and Jim – “Genius.”

It sounds polite. Sebastian knows that to anyone listening, the words lick off his tongue like grovelling. But then, no one listening would hear the subtext; the subtle but definitive refusal to beg. The correct response is, _I’m sorry, Father, I won’t change anything, I’m not good enough to know._ Just not saying it is a subtle reminder that Sebastian can chose his own course over Augustus’s. _This is genius,_ Sebastian said, meaning, _I trust my own judgement._

 _Fuck you, Dad._ Maybe Jim’ll get it, if he’s listening.

Something glints in Augustus’s eyes. On another man, it might have been humour. “You have always had exquisite musical taste, Sebastian.”

Drilled into him by the finest instructors money could pay for, after the long hours of political theory and etiquette and six, count them, _six_ different languages, and mixed martial arts and krav maga –  “Thank you.”

“It’s a shame you’ve been wasting it thus far.” Augustus’s voice snaps cold like the last day of August. And there it is: the threat. Sebastian swallows, feeling a lump like the flu in the back of his throat. Augustus smiles, thinly, and his eyes flick to Severin. It’s a brief gesture – a reminder. Anyone else would miss it, but Augustus takes in Sebastian’s flinch with pleasure. “I want to speak to you after practice,” he finishes, calmly. “But please, continue.”

Once again, the subtext is obvious: _Dig your own grave, and I will put you in it._

Sebastian’s fingers twitch at his sides. “Augustus.”

“Sebastian.” Civil to the last.

And then it’s done, and Augustus is turning for the door. Severin, at his side, looks back – just once – his hand on the doorframe and his eyes, desperate and terrified as a caged bird, seeking Sebastian.

_♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫_

“Sebastian – wait.”

“I can’t _not_ go.”

“You bloody well know what he’s going to do to you!”

Sebastian finishes buttoning his coat and tugs it into place from the bottom. “Yeah, I do.” His voice is a little bit harsh, and Seb can’t bring himself to care. He turns to face John. “Think I know better than you, actually.”

John’s face is twisted up, contorted around a sadness so profound he has to feel it as anger. “You can’t just let him do this. It’s mad.”

“Actually, I can.” Sebastian sighs, relenting, and walks over to put his hand on John’s jaw. John’s face is warm and the stubble on his chin is rough. Sebastian can feel him trying not to pull away. “I’m sorry,” he tells John. He _is_ sorry. “I have to do this. I’ll understand if you’re not waiting to find out if I’m okay afterwards.”

It’s a lame shot, because he knows how John will respond. How John _has_ to respond, with an opening like that.

“Of course I’ll be here.”

Sebastian smiles at him, and leans down for a kiss. John’s hands rise, clutching at the lapels of Sebastian’s jacket like John can hold him still: keep him from going home. They’re making a bit of a scene, standing just inside the lobby doors out of the cold with the orchestra still leaving. Sebastian supposes people will talk, but he doesn’t mind if John doesn’t.

When he pulls back John’s eyes search his face, looking for a reassurance Sebastian knows he won’t find.

“I’ll be alright,” Seb promises.

“I’ll call the cops,” John warns fiercely. “If you’re not here tomorrow.”

Sebastian feels the corner of his lip tug up in a smile despite himself, and ruffles John’s hair. “Okay, mom.” John makes a crabby sound, batting Sebastian’s hands away, and it makes Seb laugh – makes Seb sweep John in his arms and kiss him again, sweet and thorough, to remind him not to leave. “See you tomorrow,” Sebastian whispers, against John’s lips.

“Yeah.” John smooths his lapels down, and lets him go: stepping back. “Yeah.”

Severin is waiting outside in the cold and the rain when Sebastian comes through the doors. He falls wordlessly in line: pacing off the walk to the parking lot in perfect unison. Their shoes kick up mud, little brown spatters on Severin’s grey suit. Severin looks tired: his hair is dirty, even though it’s slicked into place, and there are the traces of a bruise on his cheek. Sebastian shoves his hands in his pockets and wonders if he has time for a smoke. There’s a black Mercedes S-class waiting for them: tinted windows, silver trim on its big imposing grill. Nothing but the best for Augustus.

“He in there?” Sebastian asks.

Severin hesitates before responding. “We have a hotel room.” They reach the car at the same time, but Severin doesn’t reach for the door. He looks at Sebastian, his face cold, his eyes blank.

“Hm.” Sebastian eyes the car, not taking his hands out of his pockets. He looks at Severin again. There’s nothing in Rin but silence: only emptiness behind the thin façade of control. “You wanna talk about that?” Seb asks, jerking his chin at the bruise on Severin’s face. “Finally got as good as you give?”

Severin stares back at Sebastian, impassive. “I don’t have any complaints.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t.” Sebastian finally decides, and shakes a smoke out of his pack.

“He’s waiting.”

Sebastian lights up. “Let him wait.”

“Sebastian…” Severin sounds disappointed, but Seb doesn’t care. He takes a long, slow drag, watches the smoke drift away over the shiny Mercedes. The sun sets early this time of year and it’s almost black out, the rain leaving brown stains on the white of Sebastian’s cigarette. He can feel it trickle through his hair, run down the back of his neck like fear. Seb doesn’t mind, so much. He tilts his head back and shuts his eyes, trying to find stillness inside of him.

 _Just let it happen._ It’s always harder, when it’s Augustus.

“Why do you stay?” Severin asks abruptly.

Sebastian turns to him, making a face. “I’d be in jail otherwise, you moron.”

Severin’s face doesn’t move towards an expression. “And why is that not preferable?”

It might sound sarcastic, coming from someone else, or even rhetorical. Sebastian knows it isn’t. Severin doesn’t have the capacity for humor.

“Because,” Sebastian explains patiently, taking another drag, “I fucking hate jail.” It’s not the truth, and both of them know it. Severin pauses before he speaks, as if he’s weighing the benefits of taking Sebastian’s glibness for an answer.

“You could have run in Afghanistan.”

Maybe he could have. Different life – dishonorable discharge, mercenary gangs, the thunder and boom of a gun in his hands. Sebastian can almost taste it, if he tries: like moondust and sunlight and the burn of cheap whiskey and laughter.

He’d have made a good soldier. He’d have made a good traitor to his country, too.

_So choose._

“I couldn’t. I’d be dead.”

“And why,” Severin says again, quieter this time, “Is that not preferable?”

Sebastian pretends not to hear. He snubs his cigarette out on the ground and listens to the cherry sizzle, fire washed away by the rain. “Alright,” cutting off the rest of that conversation, “Let’s do this.”

Severin gets the door for him, then. Sebastian slides inside the passenger seat of the car and settles in, rubbing his fingers on the leather. It squeaks. Severin takes the driver’s side. He puts his arm around Sebastian’s seat to reverse out, twisting to see out the back window.

Sometimes, having a twin is like living with a funhouse mirror: seeing yourself at a hundred different angles.

“Why do you stay?” Sebastian asks.

Severin glances at Seb and takes his hand from the back of the seat to the steering wheel, putting the car in drive. He spins the wheel hand-over-hand as he turns. Sebastian learned to drive in the army: he has no idea who taught Severin. Augustus, maybe. _Wouldn’t that have been fun._

“I stay,” Severin says, slow and careful, then stops.

“You could do something else.”

Severin laughs – actually laughs. Sebastian hasn’t heard him do that since they were kids. It’s an odd sound – a series of exhales without notes of sound between them, like someone’s pressed the volume on him all the way down.

Sebastian stares until Severin finally shakes his head and manages, “Something else. Yes. What did you have in mind?”

He’s right. That _is_ funny. Sebastian grins. “Professional spelunker,” he suggests.

“Cliff-diver.”

“Fireman.”

“I could be like Dickon,” Severin suggests musingly. “Wild animal tamer, gardener – “

Sebastian groans. “I can’t believe you _liked_ that book. It was for girls.”

“Of course. Clearly _Black Beauty_ is the _masculine_ choice.”

For a whole minute it’s like it used to be between them. Sebastian finds himself smiling, widely, and not just at Severin’s dry humour. It feels good in here, with the rain beating at the windscreen and Severin’s foot steady on the gas. They could keep going. They could take the car and head to Ireland, the Scottish islands, some remote place that hasn’t yet been colonized by their father.

But it’s his car. And Severin’s heading home to him.

“You _could_ leave,” Sebastian mumbles. He leans over and turns the heater off.

Severin catches his change in tone. He doesn’t look away from the road, and he doesn’t frown, but he does quiet his voice. “Where would I go?” he asks. “I don’t know how to be anything but a Moran.”

 _You and me both,_ Sebastian thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Him and Rin mean different things by the word _Moran._

_♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫_

“Thank you, Severin,” Augustus says, standing at the window. “That will be all.”

Severin doesn’t hesitate. He nods, steps back, and shuts the door behind Sebastian. Sebastian clenches his teeth, but he doesn’t say anything either.

Augustus turns a little, from the window, and he’s lit in profile by the raindrops hitting the glass. Sebastian is reminded uncomfortably of Jim.

“I am not your brother,” Augustus says, “To scold you with my fists.” They stare at each other in silence, then Augustus gestures to the chair by the cheap hotel TV. “We can do better than that. Sit down.”

“What are you going to do?” Sebastian hates the tenseness of fear in his voice.

“Sit _down_.”

Sebastian sits. After a long moment, Augustus turns from the window and pours himself a drink from the mini-bar. He doesn’t say anything. His movements are almost soundless; Augustus is a big man, but he moves with the sinewy grace of a predator and his feet are silent on the hotel floor. He’s fully dressed: double-breasted suit, black shoes. His hair is drawn back in a pony-tail behind his head, which would look ridiculous on any other man but on Augustus looks severe. It’s something about his rugged features, the broad set of his shoulders, the thick paw-like cast of his hands. There is grey in Augustus’s out-fashioned hair, but it doesn’t matter. He looks like a weathered old beast out of some dreadful story, ancient and dangerous, austere as a fortress.

Sebastian watches him warily.

Augustus pours his drink and sits down across from Sebastian, one ankle resting on his knee as he leans back in his chair. “I am going to talk,” he says, “And you are going to listen.”

A drop of moisture runs down Augustus’s glass, falling into the faded golden glow of his scotch.

“When I am done, you will get up. You will walk out that door. You will not speak back. Do you understand me?”

Sebastian nods.

“Good,” Augustus says. His foot drops to the floor. He leans forward. “Let’s begin.”

_♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫_

Sebastian stumbles, outside the hotel room, and has to catch the corner of the building to hold himself up. He’s panting like he’s run a marathon, and there’s sweat clammy on the back of his neck.

He shoves himself upright, and pushes out into the rain.

It drenches him in seconds, pounding down on his head, separating his hair into thin strands and plastering it to his forehead. Sebastian doesn’t even notice the cold of it. Augustus’s voice keeps going in his head, steady and rhythmic like the roll of John’s timpani. Sebastian isn’t even sure there’s words to it anymore: just the endless, unbreaking build of tension.

He’s shaking. His hands are trembling so bad he couldn’t light a smoke if he tried. He starts to walk, his feet tripping over each other, away from the hotel where Augustus’s room is still lit.

Augustus might even be watching for a window.

Sebastian takes a left at the next light, another left, then a right. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He puts his head down, and walks.

_♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫_

“ _Sebastian_.” Jim appears out of nowhere: collar turned up against the rain. It’s the only sign the storm has any effect on him, but Sebastian doesn’t trust it. It doesn’t seem possible that something so slight could touch him. Jim is frowning, and Seb realizes – belatedly – it is not the first time he’s said Sebastian’s name.

Seb feels like he should apologize, but he can’t. He’s got no reserves left; no strength to be sorry.

“Done so soon?” Jim asks, half-smiling, as if he’s anticipating the answer with pleasure.

Sebastian can’t manage to speak. He pushes past Jim, head down, chin tucked to his chest.  When he looks up, he doesn’t recognize the street they’re on. He has no idea how long he’s been walking, where he is. The sky, it’s dark and it’s full night. His shoes are hurting his feet, and he has no idea how long he’s been in pain.

Sebastian keeps walking. Jim trails after him, heels clicking on the pavement. “It went well, then.” Sebastian doesn’t look back to see his face.

“Did Daddy give you a spanking?” Jim teases, relentless. “Aw, Seb. Come on. I wanna play.” He hops two steps faster like a skip, and catches Sebastian’s arm.

Sebastian slows to a stop, but he doesn’t turn around. He feels like Augustus has spent the last however long it was hollowing him out with a melon-baller, and now Jim wants to play with the empty shell. Sebastian spits to the side – nearly hitting Jim’s shoes. “Let me go,” he says, evenly.

“No.”

“Let me _go,_ Jim.”

“Is that really what you need?” Sebastian turns to look at Jim for the first time and Jim’s head is tilted, carefully considering him. “No,” he decides, before Sebastian can speak. His eyes narrow, just a fraction, and then Jim sucks his bottom lip in over his teeth with a sharp sound. If Jim was human, Sebastian’d say that was pity on Jim’s face.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Sebastian.” Chiding. “How should I look at you?” Teasing, again. Sebastian can’t take it.

“Maybe you shouldn’t fucking look at me at all,” he snaps, loud, jerking his arm out of Jim’s grip.

Jim doesn’t so much let go as he doesn’t have enough of a grip to hold on. The sharp movement surprises him – it’s the first time Sebastian’s seen an honest look of surprise on Jim’s face, and it doesn’t suit him at all. In its aftermath, Jim frowns.

“Tell me what he did,” Jim commands, seriously this time. Sebastian sees his eyes slide down Sebastian’s coat, looking for stiffness or bruises. He shouldn’t bother. There aren’t any.

“He talked,” Sebastian tells Jim, knowing it doesn’t mean anything. “Satisfied?”

“Hardly.” Jim’s frown turns into a scowl. “What did he say?”

“What does it matter?”

“I suppose it doesn’t.”

The rain fills the gaps between their words like a radio tuned to static, and Sebastian can’t – he just can’t. Not with any of it, not tonight. “Do you _need_ something, Moriarty?”

Jim hesitates – another new one – then admits, “I had a job for you.” He makes a liquid motion with his hands, expressing an emotion Sebastian can’t understand, then the frown melts away. Jim tucks his hands in his pockets and watches Sebastian carefully. “You can’t handle that, tonight.”

Water drips down Sebastian’s hair onto his lips like tears. There’s nothing to say. He’s a ruin; he knows it. There’s nothing left in him. So many times he’s thought it, thought he’d hit rock bottom, only to keep falling. Now there isn’t a sense of despair left in him: there’s just nothing. He doesn’t even care when Jim starts to turn away. He doesn’t have enough heart to hurt, when Jim abandons him. He thought it would break him; thought he wanted Jim like a fever, like a forest-fire.

There’s nothing in Sebastian to burn.

He watches Jim walk off, down the pavement, back the way Sebastian’d come. Something in him wants to call Jim back. He wants to ask for the gun, for the madness, for the blind oblivion he knows Jim could offer. But he’s smarter than that. Jim will never grant him oblivion. It’s not _enough_ , for Jim: he doesn’t want the shell of what Sebastian was, he wants the real thing, alive and kicking.

Someone should tell him Sebastian has been dead for years –

At the corner Jim stops under the streetlight. A car pulls over, at his side. He bends over to speak to the driver – Sebastian can see his lips move, the skin of his face yellow with from the shoddy lighting. Jim’s hair, flat to his skull in the wet, gleams.

He straightens. He raises his hand. Sebastian doesn’t know what he’s doing: Jim waves, but it doesn’t seem to make _sense._

“Come on!” Jim yells, against the sound of the rain. And Sebastian realizes he’s beckoning.

Sebastian debates it, for all of a heartbeat. Then he’s jogging over the pavement, and Jim’s face is swimming up in double: smiling, reflected in the black mirrored windows of the chauffeured car.

_♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫_

They’re two minutes on the road when Jim makes a short sound like a huff, kicks off his shoes, and hauls himself into Sebastian’s lap. It isn’t pleasant. Jim’s all bones – all sharp knees and fingers digging into Sebastian’s pressure points. Sebastian goes rigid – not daring to push him off – and then Jim finds his place and settles, straddling Sebastian, in his lap.

_That night in the kitchen –_

“What are you doing?” Sebastian asks, suspicious.

“Shut up,” Jim replies, mimicking Seb’s brisk tone of voice from earlier. He wraps his hands in Sebastian’s hair.

He kisses him.

Teeth and scalding hot tongue, Jim digs his fingers into Sebastian’s skull and tears him apart. He draws blood on Sebastian’s lip and licks it away, breathless, pressing himself in tight to Sebastian’s chest. He wrenches Sebastian’s head back. He thrusts his way into Sebastian’s mouth, palms of his hands putting pressure hard on Sebastian’s jaw –

Sebastian gets one hand between them and shoves Jim away, hard, but there isn’t anywhere for Jim to go. He falls backwards and ends up with his shoulders braced on the seat in front of them, still half in Sebastian’s lap. With the back of his hand he wipes blood from his lips, breathing hard, black eyes blown.

“What the fuck,” Sebastian growls.

Jim’s eyes glitter dangerously. “Didn’t you want that?”

“Is this some sort of pity fuck?”

Jim pushes himself upwards with his shoulderblades and looms forward again, hands braced on the seat either side of Sebastian’s head. Sebastian’s hands twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t make a move to shove Jim off again.

“A pity fuck,” Jim says, rolling the words around in his mouth. Then he falls silent, and looks down at Sebastian’s lip. It’s still bleeding; Sebastian can feel the drip of it, over his chin, watery with saliva. “Do you think I do _anything_ out of pity, Sebastian?”

But Sebastian can’t swallow his pride enough to say it. “Why, then?”

Jim leans forward, until his head is tucked in beside Sebastian’s neck on his shoulder. Sebastian can feel the warm heat of Jim’s breath through his soaked shirt, and shivers.

“I wanted to keep you,” Jim murmurs. He doesn’t explain himself further: he doesn’t elaborate on the past tense. Sebastian shifts under him. There’s something dangerously like a goodbye in the tone of Jim’s voice.

Then the car is rolling to a stop. Jim straightens, again, still in Sebastian’s lap. He looks down at Seb with his face in a bland mask, and Seb can’t tell what he’s thinking. If he’s thinking anything.

“You can come in,” Jim says. “Really, this time. Five-star accommodations. Condoms. Everything you’ve been dreaming about.” He twists his neck out to the side, cracking his neck with a hollow-sounding pop. “I know what you’re thinking, Sebastian, but if you’re _right_ – if this is your _goodbye present –_ are you really going to miss the chance because of your pride?”

Sebastian’s pride. Now there’s a laugh.

Testing his limits, Sebastian raises his hand and rests it on the top of Jim’s leg, where Jim’s thigh meets the curve of his ass. Jim is warm. Sebastian can feel the motion of Jim’s body as he breathes, just a little too heavy to be casual.

“Come in,” Jim says. _Final offer._ Sebastian runs his hand along to Jim’s ass without saying anything, feeling the muscle in Jim’s thigh twitch when Seb’s fingers stray too far. He smiles. When he looks up, Jim is shaking his head. “Look at you,” he says. Sebastian has no idea what he means by it. Then Jim swings himself off and slides down the seat to the door, pulling his shoes back on.

Outside the rain has picked up and it’s pouring. Water splashes up off the pavement over Jim’s shoes as he gets out of the car and he turns back to face it, his hair soaked and spilling down the back of his suit. He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, in chilling silence, until his suit is soaked black and his hair is nothing but twined streams over his forehead. Then he turns and heads into the house. Sebastian can hear his shoes slap against the wet pavement, kicking up tears.

 _Alright then,_ he thinks.

Inside Jim’s door the lights are dark everywhere except under the record-player, where the cheap plastic cover is lit up by a golden glow. Jim kicks his shoes off by the door and combs a hand through his hair, shaking off the water droplets from his fingers to the walls. As Sebastian shuts the door the dim light shades Jim’s face in brown and ivory and gold.

Sebastian toes his shoes off, and the silence is still there. It’s starting to feel sacred, now. Like every moment they don’t speak something bigger draws over them, some shade or whisper of destiny. Jim stares at Sebastian with those black-hole eyes, looking larger than human, and Sebastian feels – he doesn’t know – like it’s out of some old myth, desperate and hallowed and endless, all at once.

He steps forward. Jim lifts his chin just as Sebastian lowers his head and they kiss, there, in the hallway: Jim’s soaking-wet chest pressed against Sebastian’s beating heart. Sebastian slides his arm around Jim’s waist and hugs Jim to him, all those violent angles and bones, all the white-hot heat of Jim’s slender, vicious body. Jim’s mouth opens under his. Jim’s tongue licks out like flame and scorches Sebastian, straight through his brain to the back of his head like a bullet.

Sebastian groans into Jim’s mouth and then he’s stumbling backwards, taking Jim with him, still lost in Jim’s heat. Jim twines his arms around Sebastian’s neck and Sebastian hits the wall and his hands are on Jim’s slender waist, shoving Jim’s shirt up, desperate for Jim’s skin. Jim is biting at him. Jim’s teeth are sunk in his lip, drawing blood, and it’s there in the kiss between them – the taste of copper – like birth and dying –

Sebastian groans.

Jim’s fingers wrap in his hair and pull, hard, trying to say something and lacking the words. Sebastian half-understands – the building feeling on the air has tipped over that sacrosanct silence and is falling, hard, into desperation.

“Bedroom,” he growls, against Jim’s lips.

Jim makes a breathless sound – not even a word – and shoves Sebastian harder back against the wall, pulling Sebastian’s hair until the tension narrows Sebastian’s eyes to slits. Jim is vicious. He grinds himself forward thoughtlessly, the sharp bone of his hip rutting up against Seb’s cock, his teeth snapping at Sebastian’s lips like he only ever half learned how to kiss. He still hasn’t said anything. He doesn’t. He won’t –

Not even when he frees one hand and snakes it between them, digging his claws into Sebastian’s vulnerable stomach for one brief, threatening squeeze before he wraps his fist around Seb’s cock. Over the pants, tight enough to hurt, drawing Sebastian’s sensitive skin hard upwards into his hand like a torrent of flame. Sebastian curses. He shoves Jim backwards, hard. Harder than he means to. Sebastian puts his shoulders into it and Jim staggers into the living room. He would fall, but he catches himself on the record player: one hand snapping out blind and catching the rim. The golden light gleams against his smooth skin.

Slowly, Jim lifts a hand and wipes the blood from his mouth with his knuckles. His eyes look huge in his narrow face, huge and awful, demonic in their blown-pupil darkness. He still hasn’t said anything. He draws his hand away from his mouth and looks at it for one, long moment; blood gleaming on his fingertips. Then his hand drops to his side. His eyes slide to Sebastian.

It’s an open challenge. Still in silence. _So be it,_ Sebastian thinks, and goes to meet Jim.

So much else they do in sound. They play music. They fight. Sebastian hears the retort of the gunshot in his head and the parting of his flesh when Jim tore him with the glass and that, too, they did in sound. The piano. The crack of bone breaking. Words in the Mint and on the stage and in the green room, Jim’s voice in his ear, the layers of sound that make up what they are.

This, they do in silence.

Jim is already pushing up off the record player when Sebastian slams into him and there is no sound, there is nothing, there is the white rush of blood in Sebastian’s ears as he pours everything he has into Jim. He tears Jim’s shirt rather than unbuttoning it, mother-of-pearl buttons bouncing out over the floor and under the cream-and-chrome couch. Jim’s chest, laid bare, rises with the force of his breathing. He loosens his tie himself and slings it around back of Sebastian’s neck, hands braced on other side of Sebastian’s chest using the tie to pull Seb down into another kiss.

In silence.

The sound of their breathing, then. Jim pants into Sebastian’s mouth once, heavy exhale, when Sebastian rips the belt out of his trousers. Throwing it aside. Black fabric falling off the slender bone of Jim’s hips and Sebastian digs his fingertips in, there, trying to bruise. Jim lets him. Sebastian grips harder.

Jim sways into Sebastian’s chest trying to get a good position to bite Sebastian’s neck, and it over-balances them both. They stumble backwards into the bedroom. The tie is gone, now, fabric sliding down Sebastian’s back. He can feel the prickle of the air on his skin and the sweat on his back and then Jim’s fingers are at the button of his trousers, fumbling and impatient, and he has his teeth sunk in the hard muscle of Jim’s shoulder. Leaving bruises. Jim’s blood in his mouth like a covenant, and Jim hisses –

But it’s silent –

Sebastian can hear his own ragged inhale, like a gasp, as Jim gets his trousers open and draws out his cock, stroking slick precum down his length. The trousers fall to Sebastian’s ankles. He kicks them off. Jim’s out of his now too, shoving Sebastian back, black eyes lit up with an impatient glow. Sebastian hits the bed with the back of his knees and Jim rides him down, down into the soft pillows. And it is silent. And Sebastian gasps again, when Jim rocks himself backwards, naked flesh against Sebastian’s cock.

Still Jim doesn’t say anything. Not when he reaches for the lube. Not when he preps himself, the slick-slip sounds of the lube on his fingers filling the room, not even when Sebastian fists his cock. He strokes, lazily, watching Jim arc into it: the stark curve of Jim’s ribs, the flat plane of Jim’s stomach. The silken movement of muscle in Jim’s shoulder as Jim works. He is pale against the dimness of the bedroom, straddling Sebastian, his black hair tossed back and beads of sweat on his bared throat. Sebastian sees him catch his lip in his teeth when Sebastian tightens his grip.

Seb lets the callouses of his gun hand rub under Jim’s head, at the base of his cock, all the way up the length following the vein until Jim can’t take it anymore and he makes a low sound like complaint deep in the back of his chest. Then there is no more preparation. Jim braces himself one hand to either side of Sebastian’s head, and he fucks himself backwards on to Sebastian’s cock. Impaling himself, forcing Sebastian up into the vivid heat of his body.

Sebastian hears himself make a sound, something pushed out of his stomach like an injury. The tip of his cock pushes at Jim’s entrance – slick with lube. Jim moans. Jim tenses over Sebastian like a porn-star, his back arched, his hands splayed on Sebastian’s chest. His fingertips dig in, driving his nails into Sebastian’s skin, and he pushes himself back – inch by inch – the slightly cool air of the room drawing goose-bumps on his skin.

And oh, _Christ,_ there is nothing in Sebastian’s mind but the feel of Jim.

He can’t breathe. He feels an awful empty hollowness inside his stomach, the edges of it lit up with gold. It feels like hunger. It feels like someone’s lit sparklers off in his stomach.

Jim rolls his hips over Sebastian, rocking Sebastian back into the crisp white sheets of the bed, and every fraction of a movement feels like an earthquake. Sebastian feels like someone’s sewn a seam right down the middle of him and is drawing the stitches out, slow and intimate. He hears himself growl – feels the sound rumble in his chest – then he’s surging upwards. He wraps himself around Jim, half-sitting up, braced on nothing but the burning muscles in his stomach. Jim loses his breath near Sebastian’s ear and Sebastian drags his nails down Jim’s back, _hard,_ clutching Jim close so he can fuck him faster.

Jim’s cock ruts against the rigid muscles of Sebastian’s stomach – he can feel it, dimly – and when he hits Jim’s prostate he knows from the shudder that goes through Jim, top to bottom, the quiet little moan Jim loses into the corner of Sebastian’s neck.

The world narrows down to them; everything outside their bodies might as well be a featureless black void. The slick slide of Jim’s skin against Sebastian’s, the short stilted way that Jim’s groaning with effort. The bed creaks with the force of Sebastian’s movements, but he doesn’t care. He can’t care. The muscles of Jim’s thighs are bunched and tense. He tries to arch his back and can’t, trapped in Sebastian’s arms. Sebastian feels him struggle – for a moment – then Seb jerks his hips upwards again and Jim groans, grinding himself back down onto Sebastian.

“There,” he murmurs. Anyone else would say, _please._ “There.”

This, too, feels sacred. Sebastian rolls his hips up into Jim and Jim cries out, mouth open and stretched against Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian feels Jim’s teeth scrape against the bare bone of his collar. He feels Jim’s muscles clench around him, and he is burning – he is being seared – he is set free.

Jim’s heart beats hard in his chest as it slides, sweat-damp, against Sebastian’s. Jim’s cock leaves a hot smear of moisture over Sebastian’s stomach. Jim wraps his arms around Sebastian’s shoulders and grinds his nails in, and pain flares like darkness against the bright hot light growing in Sebastian’s stomach. It feels like standing in the rain after a hot shower; tiny sparks of cold hitting Sebastian’s skin, sharp as diamonds, and every inch of him is tingling and unfinished – and he thrusts upwards into Jim,, and that pressure building in his stomach starts to creep down his thighs like a muscle cramp – into his toes –

Jim whimpers, the softest sound, and then he’s moaning and his body shudders and he loses himself, jerking in Sebastian’s arms. Sebastian feels the hot spurt of Jim’s come, between them. His grin feels breathless. He can feel a tightness all through his body but he can’t stop now, and he won’t, and Jim’s teeth grind down into his neck like Jim is going for blood at the jugular –

_♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫_

Afterwards, Sebastian lights a smoke out the window and stays there, half-sitting on the sill so he doesn’t get smoke in the room. The sacred silence lingers around the corners of the room, delicate and strange. Sebastian doesn’t want to speak yet. He wants to hold it, like this, delicate as spun glass. This moment where nothing’s gone wrong between them yet.

Jim, of course, has other plans.

“Are you sulking?” Jim drawls, behind Sebastian in bed. Sebastian thought he was asleep. He half looks over his shoulder, and sees Jim’s eyes glowing in the darkness like a cat; Jim’s head still on the pillow. His hair is a mess, a riot of black over the crisp white cotton.

Sebastian can’t bring Augustus up, because Jim will ask – _what did he say to you, anyways –_ and Sebastian will crumble into a thousand tiny pieces.

Irritation smolders in his stomach and Seb ducks his head to hide his face. “I coulda skipped your fucking lip in the orchestra today, you know,” he says, petulantly.

“My _lip?”_ Jim shoves himself up onto his elbows and Sebastian catches the movement, turning to look. Jim’s beaming, delighted.

Sebastian wishes he could take it back, but it’s too late now. “After you and John played – “ he hears himself scowl, as if at a distance.

“Yes, when Augustus came in,” Jim agrees blithely, “I see. I interfered. Naughty me! You were handling it _so well_ on your own…”

Sebastian chokes down his angry reply with smoke, breathes in, exhales. Watches the smoke drift away out Jim’s window in long, trailing ribbons. He’s got his hand halfway raised to another pull when something strikes him, and he pauses.

Sequence of events:   _I am terrified. I am staring at Augustus. Jim gets up to grab my arm. Look at you, he says. He is smiling. I am staring at him. His hair is darkbackgleaming and his face is pale with a little bit of stubble and there’s that lurch in my stomach like hatred and I think how dare you interrupt me. I am staring at Jim. I am too angry to be scared._

Sebastian lets the cigarette lower, and twists to stare at Jim. “That was on purpose,” he says, slowly. Sequence of events: _I am terrified. I am staring at Jim. I am no longer afraid_. “To get me past the shock of seeing him –”

Jim laughs again, the sound merry and pealing in the dark, but Sebastian doesn’t believe he’s amused.

“You think I was giving you a cuddle in front of the whole orchestra?” Jim asks in false astonishment. He rolls his eyes. “Believe me, Sebastian, your weakness was funny enough on its own. I didn’t need a _reason_ to point it out.” It’s not quite true. Sebastian knows it. He sees it in the corners of Jim’s mouth, how they twitch downwards for a half-second and then reframe. It’s something about the set of Jim’s shoulders, the careful stiffness of his chest as he braces on his elbows, like he’s holding himself just a little too still.

They stare at each other for a long moment in the half-dark. “Thank you,” Sebastian says, finally.

Jim looks down at the pillow beneath his hands. “It _was_ funny,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb against the grain of the fabric. His eyes are hidden, downcast. Sebastian can’t tell if there’s anything human in them at all.

He doesn’t care. He snubs the smoke out on the outside of the window, and goes back to bed: laying himself down with an arm placed, carefully, over the smallest point of Jim’s waist.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Severin’s waiting out front of Sebastian’s apartment building when they pull up the next morning, a Starbucks in one hand and his phone in the other.

“Oh, hell,” Sebastian mumbles, shoving himself downwards in his seat. He tries to run a hand through his hair, but there’s no help for it. It’s greasy as hell and Sebastian doesn’t feel much better.

Jim, to add to all the rest of his sins, is a morning person. He grins at Sebastian. “This could be fun,” he says brightly, leaning over Seb to get the handle of the door. “Go on, dear. I’ll be right behind you.”

Sebastian eyes Jim warily, but whatever happened last night hasn’t changed anything between them. Sebastian still can’t tell a damn thing Jim’s thinking.

“Go on,” Jim repeats. Sebastian sighs, kicks the door open, and straightens out of the car.

Severin frowns, looking him over. Sebastian can see Rin’s fingers tense on his Starbucks. “Where have you been?”

“Out,” Sebastian replies shortly. There’s a foul taste in his mouth.

“You’re not playing fiddle again, are – “

Sebastian knows when Jim gets out of the car, even before the door slams shut . Rin’s eyes go wide, and then narrow, and his fingers twitch just a little on the red curve of his disposable cup. “Moriarty,” he acknowledges.

“Hello!” Jim sing-songs back, for all the world as bubbly and harmless as Malibu Barbie. “Nice weather, isn’t it?” The sun’s out, today. Pathetic fallacy. Sebastian could spit.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Severin starts, but he doesn’t manage to get all the way through.

“No, no.” Jim breezes past Sebastian, throwing open the doors to the apartment building like he owns it. “By all means, come up.” He bounces through the hall and pokes the elevator button, all light and giddy energy. Sebastian eyes him suspiciously.

“Why does he have a driver?” Severin asks.

Sebastian jumps, and meets Rin’s eyes guiltily. “Who likes driving in London?” he asks, lamely, and shrugs one shoulder as if he doesn’t know. Severin’s never going to buy it, of course. No one can afford a Maybach and a personal driver on a piano player’s budget, genius or not.

“Are you coming?” Jim calls, from the elevator. Odd mood he’s in, this morning. Sebastian doesn’t respond. He’s too busy waiting for Severin to break the eye contact between them. The wind blows down the pavement outside, carrying the smell of frost. There’s something dark in Severin’s eyes, cagey and watchful like a dog that’s been kicked too many times.

“You know Augustus sent me with something in mind,” Severin says quietly to Sebastian, his head turned just slightly so Jim can’t read his lips. Sebastian knows it’s deliberate – he doesn’t think Jim misses it, either. Severin’s already starting to get the picture that there’s something _there,_ underneath Jim’s surface.

_I would have liked the matched set._

Sebastian shudders. “Let’s just go upstairs,” he tells Severin instead of responding. This time, he looks away first. Severin’s still standing there, awkwardly cupping his coffee, when Sebastian turns away. He trudges across the lobby to where Jim is waiting, and the elevator doors bing open.

Jim shoves his foot in the door, blocking it, looking expectantly at Seb. “Is he coming?” Sebastian gives Jim a hard look. This fun-and-fuck-me act of Jim’s is a little like arsenic – the sweet almond taste over poison. Sebastian’s just waiting for the other foot to drop.

“Yeah,” Seb says, as a stalling technique. He glances over his shoulder, but Severin still hasn’t moved. He’s on the welcome mat, the door slightly ajar as he stares at them through the glass. Sebastian sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Rin, don’t be like this.” He has to raise his voice to call across the lobby and maybe it’s that – more than anything – that gets Severin in motion.

Can’t afford to make a scene, after all.

As they step in the elevator Jim’s eyes glitter and Sebastian has the sudden and terrifying impression that he’s locked himself in a shark cage with the shark on the wrong side of the bars. Then Jim leans forward and stabs the button for Sebastian’s floor, and the moment has passed. It’s silent in the elevator, except for the soft whir of mechanics. The lighting’s off – someone’s shattered one of the ceiling panels again – but the walls are mirrored and give the small space a diffuse glow. Jim is studying Severin in the mirrors: Sebastian can see his interest, sharp and predatory. Severin stares determinedly forward.

It’s about as fucking uncomfortable as Sebastian can imagine anything being, and he barely holds back a sigh of relief when the doors open on his floor. He shoves a hand in his pocket for his keys and leads the way down the narrow hall, hairs on the back of his neck prickling when he thinks about the two of them behind him.

Sebastian gets the door and shows them in: Severin stiff and awkward, Jim already bouncing off the walls and hopping over to examine the contents of Sebastian’s book shelf. The quiet, cold menace that had briefly flashed in the elevator is gone again: Jim is bright and harmless, nothing more than a magpie with seeds.

Severin takes a seat at the kitchen table like it physically pains him to do so, setting his Starbucks down beside him. “Augustus has decided on the date of the concert,” he opens, without preamble.

“Oh yeah?” Sebastian drops his coat by the door and heads over to make coffee. He looks over, catching Jim’s eye. “Coffee?”

Jim smiles. He’s exhausted the bookshelf already and is perched on the back of the couch, drumming his heels against it. “Lovely.”

Severin is frowning, now – or what passes for frowning from Severin, a slight crease in his forehead. “Sebastian, I worry you’re not taking this seriously.”

“No,” Sebastian reassures him, “I am. Like a heart-attack.” It’s easier to be flippant with Jim grinning over Severin’s head at him, and Sebastian starts making coffee humming. “When’s the concert?”

“Next month.”

Sebastian spills grounds all over the counter, spinning to look at Severin. “Sorry, I thought you said _next month._ ”

Severin raises an eyebrow, and it’s all the answer he’ll give.

“No,” Sebastian tells him. “No. No way. Who’s going to buy tickets? Rin, I know what he’s doing, and it’s fair to me. But to them – “

“They’ll get paid either way.”

“Playing to a half-empty hall? Bullshit! This orchestra is fantastic –“

“And yet, it can’t even play the score properly.”

At that a stormy silence falls between them. It’s a long, tense moment before Sebastian can manage to grind out between his teeth, “This isn’t their fault. Don’t punish them for what I am.” He turns back to the coffee machine, jabbing it on with an angry stab of his finger.

Severin opens his mouth to answer, but Jim gets there first. “If _he_ was punishing you, you’d have more broken bones.” It makes them both turn to look – Sebastian wary and Severin shocked at the blasé tone of Jim’s voice. Jim is smiling, although he no longer looks cheery and harmless. His heels drum against the couch, and it sounds like a threat. No mistaking him now. There’s that awful presence, unfolding around him, the pressure on the air of whatever Jim _is._ His eyes are hollow holes drilled straight through his skull and his fingers gripping the fabric of the couch are bone, no muscle, no skin. He tilts his head, watching them both. Seb hears Severin draw a breath in fear.

“Isn’t that what you do?” Jim asks. Tone light. “Break bones?” There’s no way Severin’s going to answer that, and everyone in the room knows it. The coffee machine gurgles to itself.

“Leave off, Jim,” Sebastian says quietly.

Jim lets himself drop to the ground and Sebastian is surprised the ground doesn’t rock with his weight. He’s grown, after all – taking up the whole room, floor to ceiling, looming above them like Augustus used to. The kitchen chair scrapes against the floor as Severin, instinctively, gets to his feet.

“Don’t protect him,” Jim tells Sebastian. “Don’t worry. I’m just going to talk.” As if that’s less of a threat. As if that wasn’t what Augustus did. Jim ambles over to them, easy and languid, taking his time. Sebastian thinks the air might be getting thinner; he’s breathing shallow, watching Jim. He can see the pale fascination on Severin’s face, underneath the terror.

“And you.” Jim smiles. “You.” He comes to a stop right in front of Severin, and has to tilt his head back to look Severin in the eye. Just like he does for Sebastian. For an eerie moment Seb sees what they must look like to outsiders – what John must see, when he looks at Jim and Seb. Jim is slender and frail against Severin’s broad frame, and Severin seems made of pure gleaming copper in comparison to Jim’s black-and-white elegance. They’re a study in contrasts; tawny and pale, blonde and black, short and tall.

Jim is smiling. Severin is terrified, and trying to hide it, but there’s no use hiding from Jim. Sebastian could have told him that.

“You’ve known since you were eight years old that dear old Sebastian here was throwing himself under the bus for you. And you’ve never – not once! – had the strength to stop him. And now you want to come in here, making threats?” Jim laughs. “Oh, baby. No. No.” He pats Severin’s cheek. “Friendly warning: you don’t get to play tough guy anymore.”

“This is none of your business,” Severin manages. Sebastian has no idea how he forces the words out with his jaw so rigid.

Jim grins like it’s exactly what he wanted Severin to say. “Isn’t it?”

“Sebastian’s discipline is –“

“Look at you,” Jim cuts Severin off, his voice soft and coaxing like he’s talking to a frightened child. “Making threats.” He steps closer, a rapturous light in his black eyes. Severin shudders like something’s fallen down the back of his neck. “You’re going to do as I say and you know it already. Do you want me to prove it to you? Thatyou’re not strong enough to cross me?”

Severin can’t manage a response and Jim’s voice drops even lower, if possible, a purr just above silence. “Look at you bleeding inside that head of yours,” he murmurs, solicitous as a lover. “How long have you been trapped up there with your own screams? No one can tell, can they, but if you had the courage you’d kill yourself.” He reaches up to Severin’s cheekbone again, traces a circle on Severin’s skin. Severin flinches. “Poor thing. You want all of this to disappear. The world he dragged you into all – the violence. The guilt.” He threads his fingers through Severin’s hair, and Sebastian sees Jim then as his victims must before they die.

Jim isn’t human. He’s something much darker, much worse than that. Jim is no creation of God’s.

“A garden and a lover who never, _ever_ bruises in your hands,” Jim whispers to Severin. “Clean hands. You dream about that, sometimes. It’s sad, isn’t it? You know deep down you couldn’t do it. Even if you were free. Even if Augustus were dead. Even if you revoked the Moran name and crown and went into hiding, it’s cancer, isn’t it, Severin? It’s in your marrow. If you had a lover, you’d hit her. Matter of time. Even if you run, it’s _inside you._ ” Jim leans forward. He presses his lips to Severin’s ear, and it’s only by reading his lips that Sebastian knows what Jim’s saying. “You could run forever,” he breathes into Severin, “And you would _still_ what you are.”

As if those are the words that break Jim’s spell, Severin throws himself violently away from Jim. It looks almost like Jim’s stabbed him. Jim lets him go, laughing. “Go on,” he tells Severin. “Out the door. Back to Daddy. Give him my love, would you, tell him I appreciate what he’s done with the two of you. And I’ll be having Sebastian.”

***

“What the fuck was that? What did you _do?”_ Sebastian asks, in disbelief, staring at the slammed door.

Jim shrugs, padding over to the cupboard. He opens it – has to go on his tiptoes to reach – and grabs a cup. “Pointed out the obvious,” he tells Sebastian, pouring himself a coffee. Black, Seb notices. Two spoons of sugar. He heard once that in New Orleans, they say _blacker than the devil and sweeter than a stolen kiss._ Jim turns back to face Sebastian, rubbing his thumb along the porcelain handle of the mug. “He is _darling,_ your Rin.” A pause. “Do you want me to tell you why you’re like this?” Jim takes a sip of his coffee and supplies his own answer. “Or did _he_ tell you, right from the beginning?”

Sebastian’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nevermind, then.” Jim thinks of something, half-lowering his coffee cup. “You weren’t triplets, were you?”

Sebastian snorts. “God forbid.” He leans over Jim to grab his own mug. They lean on the counter for a minute, sipping coffee, and it’s horribly domestic in an odd sort of way. “Next month,” Sebastian muses at the broken clock on the wall. “John’s going to be crushed, I don’t know how I’ll break it to him.” He almost can’t believe it. The clock clicks off-beat with time. Sebastian raises his coffee to his lips, and takes a long burning swallow. He thinks about saying something else, but everything that comes to mind is inane.

“Are you _really_ thinking of the orchestra right now?”

Seb glances at Jim. His first thought, with a horrible lurching fear in his stomach, is _I’ve missed something._

Jim catches Sebastian’s eyes and it’s a deliberate thing: Jim holds Seb in a stare, until Sebastian feels his heart stutter in his chest. Jim knows the moment fear starts to move in Sebastian; he lowers his chin, just a hair, and allows his face to change. All that carefully constructed levity slips from Jim like water down a window pane. Jim’s expression drains of humour, then of friendliness, then of humanity, like a lead-paint mask is being stripped away. What’s left staring back at Sebastian is cold, not a little cruel, and absolutely disinterested.

“I’m glad you enjoyed the performance, but now that the big bad wolf is gone I think we need to have a little chat.” Jim’s bone-white fingers drum against his coffee-cup. “Or were you hoping I _actually_ came here to fight your battles for you?”

“Wh –“

But Jim doesn’t need Sebastian’s input, least of all now. “I mean, I will if I have to, but you’re a _big boy_.” He sets his cup down, and pushes it away. “I’m not here to rescue you. I’m not here to scare away the bullies or the monsters under your poor widdle bed.” Jim hasn’t blinked yet. Maybe he doesn’t need to. He’s standing in Sebastian’s kitchen and somehow, still, he’s entirely isolated from it; not a thing in the room connected to him. If Sebastian looked down at Jim’s feet and found Jim floating, he wouldn’t be surprised. Jim stretches his fingers out, one by one, a pianist’s gesture, then curls them back in to his palm. “If you ever mistake me for a boyfriend again, or god forbid your _protector_ , I’ll kill you. Slowly.”

Sebastian gapes at him. The air in the room turns cold, and then to frost. Jim waits patiently until Sebastian is able to stutter, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wrong answer. Jim’s lip twitches towards a sneer. “Because _I_ look like the _infinitely patient_ type. Let’s be clear: I find you pathetic when you’re showing your belly.” The ice in the air seeps into Sebastian’s bones and holds him there, frozen. Jim takes a sip of his coffee, slow and nonchalant. His eyelids finally lower, but it doesn’t matter. Sebastian can still see Jim’s eyes. He can still see the exact moment, the exact expression – _pathetic –_ it rings in his head like a bell –

“I gave you the gun. I walked you through Sherlock. I saved you from Augustus. And again. And again. And again.” Jim rolls his head on his shoulders, as if it’s all tedious beyond belief. “You’re running out of _time,_ Sebastian _._ I’m _bored._ The only reason I’m here rescuing you is because I _want_ something.” Jim continues, setting his cup back down, “And I’m really starting to think you’re _never_ going to be worth my time.” A few drips of coffee spill over the rim of the cup and race down to the counter, leaving brown stains and a wet smear behind. Sebastian isn’t sure that he’s breathing. He feels like Jim is driving a giant corkscrew through his chest. Every word seems to echo, pinning Sebastian back to the wall behind him. He can’t even think in full sentences –

_Jim’s right, I’m, all I ever was, I’m,_

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, roughly.

Jim’s eyes snap, cold and furious. “Make up your mind.” His hand slams forward over Sebastian’s on the counter, and Jim digs his fingers hard into Sebastian’s bones. His palms are burning. “Make up your _fucking_ mind, Moran, are we clear?”

Not Sebastian anymore. _Moran._ With everything that comes along with the word.

Jim throws Sebastian’s hand away from him and straightens.

“You have until the concert,” he says coldly. “If you want to be my whipping boy instead of Augustus’s, you can’t just keep calling me to fix your problems.” He points over Sebastian’s shoulder, at John’s forgotten jacket hanging forgotten by the door. “You can’t play _house_ with the other little girls. If you want my protection, my time, and my _cock,_ I want your obedience, Moran. I want your absolute loyalty. And I _will_ have it.” He straightens his suit, knocks Sebastian out of the way pushing to the door. When it opens, he turns back.

“But I’ll settle for walking away,” Jim drawls, his deep voice lazy and mocking again. “If you’re not going to play my little game, I’ll just leave. Won’t bother me.” Framed by the hallway lights, he pauses to let the words sink in. Sebastian doesn’t dare speak. Jim smiles. “Now, was that clear enough?”

Sebastian swallows hard past a lump in his throat, and nods.

“Good,” Jim says, hand on the doorknob. “Ta.”

And the door slams shut behind him.

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

The next day is a Wednesday, and they have practice. The orchestra accepts the news of the upcoming concert with a grim stoicism that makes Sebastian think he’ll hear complaints later: when it sinks in. Everyone hates the deadline except Sherlock, who sniffs disapprovingly. And Jim, of course, grinning, unfazed.

When the room descends into a clutter of sound and the rest of the instruments start packing up, Jim spins himself off his piano bench and makes a bee-line for Sebastian. He moves instinctively well through the crowd; always managing to be out of the way of a thrust-out case or chair. Sebastian sees Sherlock’s head go up, tracking Jim’s movement, and when Jim comes to a halt in front of Sebastian Sherlock’s citrine eyes narrow.

The pressure of that stare stays on them. Sebastian notices, out of the corner of his eye, that little mouse-blonde Molly is packing up her case with tear-stains on her cheeks. He’ll get the story of that eventually, he’s sure. For now…

Jim tilts his head back and the stage lights catch his eyes. He raises one hand with slow and deliberate pageantry, and beckons. Sebastian debates not indulging him, but in the end –it’s Jim. Sebastian bends down so Jim can whisper in his ear.

“I need you,” Jim breathes, so purposefully suggestive that Sebastian has to try hard not to laugh.

“And yesterday I was pathetic,” Sebastian replies dryly. He doesn’t dare raise his head to see who other than Sherlock is watching. Seb recognizes Molly’s scurrying footsteps, just before the door of the hall slams. _Let John still be playing with the drums. Let him not notice._

Jim grins, pleased with Sebastian for calling him out. Their faces are so close that Sebastian only sees it as a brief flash of white, in the corner of his eye. “Aren’t I so tolerant and accepting of your inadequacy.”

“Get on with it,” Sebastian tells Jim, straightening. He keeps his voice curt even though inwardly he feels as though he might almost _like_ Jim. When Jim’s this way, obtuse and playful and delicately menacing, Sebastian feels a warm humour push against his chest. As much as the venomous little freak is still a monster, Seb almost thinks they might have been friends. _In another world, maybe._ Sebastian watches Jim smile. _A world where he was human, a world where I was a little stronger, we might have been_

“Well, if you insist –“ Jim’s saying, “That job from the other night still needs doing. Does the big strong man want to move my furniture around? Trim my tree?”

_Blow a man’s head off in a back alley for me?_

There’s a risk. Of course there’s a risk. They could be caught, Augustus could follow them, Sebastian could end up as a spread in the evening news with no one the wiser about Jim’s involvement. Jim might even set it up: plan to have Sebastian turned in, just for the laugh of seeing Seb’s face behind bars.

But Sebastian tasted something when Jim called him _pathetic,_ and the unanswered challenge is still sitting on Seb’s tongue: thick bitter gobs of it dripping down his throat. He _has_ to prove Jim wrong. He doesn’t give a fuck about the risk.

“What do you have in mind?” he asks.

“I’ve got the Maybach sitting outside,” Jim starts, “A little bit around the corner where it’s dis..crete…” His eyes slide over Sebastian’s shoulder. “Oh dear.” Before Sebastian can turn to see what Jim’s looking at, Jim pats Sebastian’s forearm and says. “I best be off. Catch me around the corner in fifteen, if you can.” He makes eye contact – it’s heavy between them, that eye contact, like the thrum of an open E string. “You know,” Jim adds, cryptically, “You’re not much like him.”

“Like who?”

“Sebastian?”

John’s voice is tense and frustrated. When Sebastian turns, John’s clenching and unclenching his fists. He stares after Jim with something like hatred. Sebastian doesn’t even really think John knows he’s doing it: it looks like it’s happening without his permission.

“Are you alright?” John’s frowning, his careworn face creased. Sebastian has nothing to say. “I missed you the other night,” John tacks on lamely. His eyes slide down Sebastian. Sebastian is reminded of Jim – in the rain – searching for Augustus’s bruises. But Jim had known, instantly, that there weren’t any.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Sebastian looks back over his shoulder, but wherever Jim’s gone, he might as well have let the earth swallow him up. Back to John; untidy blonde hair sweeping over his forehead. He needs a trim; it’s getting into shaggy, a moppet-headed look that takes ten years off his age. “What’s…” _What do you want_ seems too harsh. _What’s going on_ is too casual. There isn’t a question that’s phrased right for this, this awkward thing between them that’s only half romance now.

Sebastian realizes with a somewhat nauseous churn in his stomach that yesterday night, he cheated on John. It hadn’t felt like that at the time. _If John undresses me now will he see the marks of Jim’s nails – the way Jim buried himself in my skin – will he know, can he guess from my face that I’ve seen Jim in glory naked and shining_

“I was thinking we might do dinner tonight,” John says, slowly. He knows. Of course he knows. He can’t not know. It has to be written all over Sebastian’s face like Eve in the Garden of Eden, returning to Adam with Knowledge shining in the lines of her smile.

_Jim, in silence – there, Sebastian, there._

“If you’re not busy,” John says. He _must_ know. Sebastian can see those awful fault lines in his soul, still. John’s open heart visible through the cracks in his shell. John’s face is battered down like a house in the path of a hurricane, a firm jaw and a tight slash of lips sucked in over his teeth.

“Sorry,” Sebastian says, “I already have plans...” He’s not even part way through the sentence when he can see John’s heart start to sink down toward the floor. It’s almost like someone has sewn a string through John and is using it to pull him through his own stomach: Sebastian can see dull disappointment sag into John’s shoulders.

A different man might let it have him. Under the weight, though, John straightens. He nods, and smiles, bitterness clear on his face. Seb empathizes, and maybe that’s the worst part of it: he recognizes that cynical and grimy disillusionment. John’s looking at Sebastian now with something worse than pity: the wry and ironic humour of insight.

John knows he’s lying. Sebastian can’t hide from that.

Maybe an honorable man would break it off. Maybe an honorable man would, at least, tell the truth. _I’m sorry but he burns in me like the wrath of God and I never saw hellfire when I touched you –_

“It’s nothing,” Sebastian says. “Work things. Have to do my dinners, promote the orchestra, you know…”

“Sure,” John replies, dry and disbelieving. “You’re a Moran, after all.”

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

And everything that means.

Jim meets Sebastian out back behind the theatre with the Maybach, the door already open when Sebastian hops the curb coming around the corner. Sebastian slides himself in and shuts the door, not looking yet at Jim. Jim’s faceless driver takes off. This time he doesn’t wait for the kick to the back of his seat. His head turns slightly, judging the turn, and Sebastian gets a glimpse of his impassive profile.

 _What kind of man,_ Sebastian thinks briefly, _takes a job driving for Jim?_

But Jim doesn’t seem dangerous, now: he’s already absorbed in his phone, the blue light glow reflected in each each of his dark pupils. There’s a third dot of light, in triplicate, reflected off the window. It’s getting dark earlier and earlier now, and the sky outside the Maybach is only a shade off of black. Seb thinks it might be the same colour that Jim’s hair turned, when Sebastian flicked his bedroom light off.

“Interesting man, your brother,” Jim says, without looking up. He tilts the screen enough to show Sebastian that he’s reading an article about another opera Severin’d conducted – not _La Trav,_ something in Edenborough. The article’s title proclaims _Another Moran Triumphant,_ and in the photo beneath it Severin is taking his bow, his blonde hair white in the colourless photo. The orchestra behind him is a blur of faces and suits, too pixelated for detail.

“What about him?” Sebastian asks, warily. He hasn’t forgotten Jim scaring Severin off, any more than he’s forgotten that Jim doesn’t know who Severin really is.

 _As if –_ flashes through Sebastian’s mind – _there’s a true core in him that still is the awkward child, bony knees, broken arms – as if ‘who Rin really is’ was forever paused at eight years old –_

“Nothing. He’s just interesting.” Jim takes his phone back, and Sebastian can’t help himself.

“All those things you said –“

“About cancer and suicide? Or about you being pathetic?” Jim glances up. “Cancer and suicide, you mean,” he decides, taking in Sebastian’s expression with a bare flick of his eyes. He looks back down again. “Who knows,” he tells his phone screen. “It might even be true.”

“Why’d you say it, if you didn’t think it was true?” There’s a hint of the older brother in Sebastian’s voice, the one that might have been. Still protective of Rin’s fragile heart.

“I just said what he was afraid of,” Jim replies absentmindedly. He opens a different app on his phone and starts typing. “Is he broken? Yes, definitely. Is it unfixable? You know, I have _no_ idea. I said it to you at the opera, that your father did too good of a job. If I could have him, which I won’t, I wouldn’t.”

Sebastian frowns, feeling an implication he doesn’t quite understand. “You’ll have me instead, because he’s too far gone?”

Jim’s fingers pause for a hair of a second, so quick that Sebastian might miss it if he didn’t know what Jim was. Then Jim’s back to typing, and his voice is purposefully light. “Who says I wasn’t head-hunting you to begin with? Maybe you’re just _so_ lovely…” The disingenuity of it makes Sebastian laugh. Jim smiles to himself and continues, “No, honestly. I wasn’t sure until I met him, but it’s too deep. You might make him _ordinary_ again, but you’ll never make him _useful._ ”

“Useful.”

“Yes.” Jim tucks his phone in his pocket, and looks up at Sebastian – really, this time, not just glancing. He smiles softly, and it isn’t reflected in his eyes the way the light from his phone was. “I do intend to use you, you know. It’s the end result of this little game we’re playing. I’ll get what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

Sebastian’s not sure he wants to hear the answer. Maybe it’s a good thing, then, that Jim reaches over and pats his leg and changes the subject without so much as a _sorry_. “How are you at close range?”

Sebastian frowns, trying to keep up, and answers guardedly. “Decent.”

“Good. I need a little bit of intimidation.” Jim glances out the window, where the streetlights are rushing by in flashes like white lines on the highway. “Someone’s been a very naughty boy…” He’s still smiling; the faintest edge around the corners of his mouth like the blade on a knife.

“What was it this time? Saxophonist not tonguing his notes?”

Jim glances over, and blinks. He almost looks startled. “Sorry?”

“What are you killing them for, I mean.”

“Oh, that.” Jim shakes his head, looking back out the window again. “No, it’s not a musician. This is business.”

“Business.” Silence in response. Sebastian frowns. “What exactly do you mean, _business?_ ” The car is slowing to a halt. They’re outside some massive sky-scraper: Sebastian can see the rotating door and the first few floors of glass windows out Jim’s side of the car, although he can’t see the top. It goes up and up, all shimmering glass and elegant chrome. Through the windows the first floor of the lobby is open to the street. There’s a desk where a security guard is sitting, and elevators, and not much else. The blank empty space in the heart of London is nothing more than conspicuous consumption: an absence of use that proves absolute wealth through waste alone.

 _Blackwood Corporate Insurance,_ the logo on the door proclaims.

“The orchestra is a hobby,” Jim tells Sebastian. “ _This_ is my job.” He opens his door and steps out onto the pavement, tugging his suit into place. Sebastian sends a look at the driver, but whatever he’s thinking the man doesn’t show more than the flat black back of his head. _What kind of man…_ Jim’s door slams and he’s already two steps up off the curb, striding towards the doors. It’s dark – preternaturally dark, for London. There must be a streetlight out. The only light streams out of the dimmed bank, half the lights off after business hours but a couple illuminated above the desk of the security guard. Jim’s black hair bleeds into the back of his suit, undefined.

Sebastian curses and scrambles out of the car after him, jogging a couple steps to catch up. Jim doesn’t say anything. There’s someone waiting for them at the door of the bank and as they get close Sebastian recognizes Valentyna’s sharp features, the birdlike abruptness of her movements.

She snaps to what passes for attention, on her. “M,” she acknowledges, neatly, a soldier in front of her commanding officer.

Sebastian can hear the smooth amusement in Jim’s voice as he responds. “Hello, Valentyna. Have you been a good girl?” He slows to a halt, tucking one hand into the pocket of his trousers.

Valentyna doesn’t deign to notice that he’s mocking her. “The power’s cut and the phone lines are down. Wifi and cell services have been blocked. We are waiting on your go.”

Alarm bells go off in Sebastian’s head. “Who’s _we?_ ” he asks, a little sharply.

Valentyna looks at him with frowning surprise at being interrupted, but it’s Jim who says – even more amused now – “Nevermind him. He’s slow. Are they in there?”

Valentyna shakes Sebastian off her shoulders and straightens again. Her rib cage is visible, pressing at the thin fabric of her black shirt. “Yes. Third floor.”

“Good.” Jim glances at Sebastian, and gestures to the revolving door. “Last one to the top’s a sissy,” he sing-songs, grinning. When Sebastian doesn’t immediately move, Jim levels two fingers in a mocking salute at Valentyna and ambles off on his own. There’s something settling about his shoulders; that mantle of darkness that Sebastian has seen him draw on against Severin and that first night they’d met in the concert hall. It sits on him comfortably.

Sebastian’s mouth is dry as he follows. _What am I getting myself into?_

He isn’t expecting the security guard.

A bit of bad luck, maybe. A rent-a-cop schedule that nobody thought to check when they cut the phone lines to the building, a missing piece too small for Jim’s watchful eye. Somehow Sebastian doubts it. Jim isn’t surprised when the portly man in the white shirt and clip-on tie rises from his desk; the muscles in his shoulders remain loose and ready. Sebastian sees a glimmer in Jim’s eye, caught in his profile, the first spark of a dark amusement. Then the man is on his feet. Coming around the desk, reaching for the security baton on his waist. His belt-hole is worn, and his shoes have cracked leather in the creases.

“What are you doing in here?” he demands. His voice quavers on the word, unsure of himself. Sebastian knows the picture him and Jim must make; Jim slender and menacing in his neat-cut back suit with Sebastian looming over him. Seb’s seen it before: Severin’s size amplified with Jim tucked under his chin. It made Rin look taller. It must do the same to Sebastian. It must make him into a monster in the security guards’ eyes.

Jim looks over to Sebastian. “Kill him,” he says. Simple. As if it’s that easy.

The guard has a name tag on his chest, _Tony,_ short-cropped dark hair with a balding patch on the crown of his head. He’d been thin, once; there’s a wiry muscle in his arms and legs that must have made him a lithe young man, but he’s been nursing a beer gut into his middle age. It strains against the cheap fabric of his uniform. This man hasn’t had to run away from hunting dogs. This man hasn’t had to learn to fight to Augustus Moran’s exacting standard (it’s a prerogative of masculinity, to defend yourself). He’s never fought one-v-one in the rough-and-tumble world of Army basic, scrabbling to claw to the top. Sebastian could break him with one hand.

And Jim says, “Kill him.”

Tony’s eyes widen. Sebastian sees it: the prick of fear-sweat beading in Tony’s temple. The unsteady slip of his hand as he misses the baton and leaves himself, for a moment, open in shock. The faultlines in Tony are deeper than the ones Sebastian saw in John. There’s fear, and uncertainty, and that slowness of dull living that comes from a long life lived in dead end jobs, making just enough to feed his wife and 2.5 children – Sebastian hesitates, wondering if he can convince Jim to let this one go. It’s too small of a thing, killing a fat man with a sad face: like crushing bugs under his heels. It feels wanton and degrading.

Seb’d known, on some level, that the musicians were innocent. No crime other than a bad performance, and Jim had watched them die screaming without a second thought. Still, Sebastian hesitates. He wonders, _if I said no let him live would Jim roll his eyes and –_

Seb doesn’t make it to the end of the sentence. Jim reads the refusal on Sebastian’s face and with a short noise of frustration, he’s moving faster than Sebastian can put out a hand to stop him. Jim’s got a knife in his pocket: it’s in his hand in a heartbeat, silver like fish-scales, shining in the dim light over Tony’s desk. Jim moves so fast it looks like he blurs; with an awful, deadly grace like a figure-skater. The smooth curve of his back echoes down to the dip of his knee, the arch of his calf. Poetry in motion. Jim’s in front of Tony too fast for Sebastian to finish sucking in a startled exhale, blade-up, slender line of his suit like a curse stark against Tony’s white shirt. Then Jim’s arm whips up and around and the blade slashes through Tony’s throat. Sebastian sees the flesh part – the flapping edges sucking around the vacuum of the blade like the gills of a fish – and then blood spatters forward.

Jim’s moving too fast for it to hit him. He side-steps, pivots, twirls on the ball of his feet as neat as a dancer, already back to back with Tony. Blood jerks out of Tony’s throat with the hard-fast pump of arterial flow, arching forward for a heartstopping second before the first drops touch the floor. And then it’s pouring down his neck, over the stiff collar of his shirt, drops hitting the marbled floor at high velocity and skittering over the slick surface to Sebastian’s feet.

It all happens so fast that Sebastian’s not sure he sees all of it, but when he shuts his eyes it happens again. And again. Blood on Jim’s blade and the elegant flash of the knife and the sheer relentless _beauty_ of his body in motion.

Tony hits his knees and Sebastian realizes his eyes are shut because he doesn’t _see_ it, he _hears_ it, the _crack_ of Tony’s knees on the ground. Eyes open, now. Tony falling over, onto his face, a pool of blood spreading away from his outstretched, twitching fingers.

When Sebastian inhales he smells the copper-and-shit reek of death, and it chokes him. He coughs, eyes watering, hides his face in his sleeve. _Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ._

On his stomach and dead you can’t see Tony’s beer-gut. The long line of his back into those thin legs makes him look twenty again, if you ignore the bald patch. And Jim had looked so damn good killing him. Sebastian thinks of the heavenly, singing perfection that had thrummed in his bones when he took the killshot. It must have smelled like this in that room, across the street, through the trees. Seb must have done this: _Dean_ he’s killed so many _the hounds_ people before and _Augustus_ it shouldn’t be different but somehow it _Severin_ is –

Before Sebastian can think to retch Jim grabs his tie.

“ _No,”_ Jim growls, twisting his fist in the fabric.

If Sebastian wanted to throw a punch, this is when it would happen. He’d throw Jim back from him, overpowering Jim easily. He’d stumble to the door, pushing at the glass, he’d call the police. Or maybe he wouldn’t make it that far. Valentyna would take him out; or Jim would, that silver blade slipping in under Sebastian’s ribs to his kidney from behind –

Jim snarls wordlessly. He shoves Sebastian backwards. Sebastian must be in shock, because even though Jim’s slight, the push makes Seb stumble. He’s still thinking _Christ, Jesus Christ,_ a refrain over and over in his brain. Then Jim kicks him; expertly, in the outside of the knee, to make it crumple. Sebastian goes down. Just like Tony went down: all at once, his body betraying him. Then he’s on the floor in front of Jim and Jim twists a hand into Sebastian’s hair, wrenching his head backwards.

“Don’t you dare,” Jim is spitting at Sebastian, furious. “Now? _Now_ you’re going to lose it?” He’s furious. Sebastian supposes he has every right to be.

 _I came along. I wanted this._ “He was just – “

“Wrong place, wrong time, Sebastian, come _on._ ” Jim rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t take away from the cold and implacable wrath in his face. His mantle of darkness is still on him; furled back from his shoulders like dark wings. “Is this all you are? _Really?!_ You’re a killer, and _this_ is what gets you, a rent-a-cop?” He’s practically screaming.

Sebastian winces, but he can’t help himself. “I wasn’t expecting – “

“Like you’re a civilian. Like you’re _innocent,_ Sebastian, _please.”_

Maybe Sebastian’s been pretending to be normal for too long. He’s lost the trick of loving death. When Seb tries to breathe all he hears is the retort of the L129A1. He hadn’t even asked _why_ or _who._ He’d just taken the shot. Because it was difficult? Because he had to prove himself? What had he thought? _Evolutionary perfection?_ Sebastian’s going to be sick. _Is this what I am?_ He’s staring at the pool of blood creeping out around Tony’s body and it’s black against the white floor; as black as Jim’s suits. The only notes of red in it circle around the reflections of the lights. It doesn’t look like blood does in the movies, but somehow, it smells infinitely worse.

“Save me.” Jim jerks at Sebastian’s hair to get his attention. “I don’t have time for this,” he snaps. “If you like the _idea_ of what I am but not the reality, this isn’t the time to figure that out. You’re too far now, Sebastian. You’re in this. Do you understand?”

 _Oh._ Something in his tone of voice hits a chord in Sebastian and it all snaps brutally into focus. Sebastian hears himself respond, and the voice is one he recognizes from deployment. Cool. Professional. “What do you want me to do?” _That’s the way it is,_ Sebastian thinks. He can feel his mind click into motion like a clockwork machine, shoving Tony’s death down into a compartment where it can be locked up and dealt with later.

 _“Obey,_ ” Jim responds, brutal and harsh. He pulls at Sebastian’s hair again, like a reminder. “Without question. Without hesitation. Whatever you see, Sebastian, you will _obey.”_

And the ticking of clockwork in Sebastian’s brain agrees. He’s already feeling the chill of it seep into his bones: numbing the guilt and horror. So it doesn’t make sense that he responds the way he does: blame it on his masochism, maybe. His sheer love of Jim when Jim’s being perverse.

“I thought you weren’t like my father.”

Unexpectedly, it makes Jim laugh, and that makes Seb grin, and everything seems a little bit brighter in the dim glow of the lobby. They’re still in view of the street, Sebastian realizes: what a picture they must make.

Jim lets go of Sebastian’s hair with a contemptuous gesture that tosses Sebastian’s head back, making whiplash sing in Sebastian’s spine, but he’s still smiling. “You’re right,” Jim says agreeably. “I’m not. But I do have a business to run. And I won’t have you question me where they can see.”

 _Friends again, I suppose._ Sebastian places his hands on his knees and stares up at Jim. “Afterwards,” he asks, trading on Jim’s goodwill, “Will you let me ask questions?”

Jim considers Sebastian; thoughtful for once, knowing what questions Sebastian might ask. “Yes,” he replies. “After.” And he isn’t much like Augustus, after all.

It’s enough.

They go to the elevators.

Sebastian doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but whatever it is, it’s not calm. And that’s what he gets: the door bings open on the fourth floor and the men waiting for Jim are sitting around a board table for all the world like it’s just another Monday. Sebastian recognizes the scene from a hundred others just like it, learned at his father’s knee. Fluorescent lights, dark glass, the city outside cast in smears of naptha and concrete.

Jim steps forward, drawing the attention of the room, and Seb remembers – something – just at the corner of his mind where his thoughts can’t quite stretch. He shakes his head, frowning, but Jim’s spreading his hands wide and Sebastian has to pay attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Jim proclaims, in a booming showman’s voice. Then it drops away from him like the mask of humanity leaking from his face, and Jim speaks in a dry, sarcastic monotone. “What _have_ we here.”

Nine men, three women, and a single quaking secretary shoved back in the corner. Two of the men are standing – security, Sebastian reckons, by their clip-on ties and white shirts. They’re a different breed from Tony downstairs: lean and hungry. Sebastian can see gym-toned muscles bulging underneath the cheap shirts. Everyone else is dressed expensive: in suits, sleek and well-fed, their stomachs bulging under the board-table.

“I’m not terribly impressed,” one drawls to his fellows in a welsh accent.

“You summoned _Moriarty,_ ” Jim replies, even though the comment’s obviously intended to exclude him, “What were you expecting? Fairy tale monster?”

“Someone a bit _taller,_ maybe,” the Welshman replies.

Lucky for him Jim takes it as funny. Sebastian sees Jim smile in the reflection off the glass top of the table as Jim steps forward. He’s ignoring Sebastian, as if the scene downstairs didn’t take place, and Sebastian watches him warily. The group’s terrified of Jim; Sebastian can see that, too, even though they’re pretending at nonchalance. Layers on layers of masks, and Jim in the center of it all: his dark reflection smiling.

“Let me get this straight,” he begins again, wreathed in shadows. “You tracked down one of my own, clever boys. Then you tortured her until she gave you my number. Then you called me here, because... why? You wanted to play checkers?” He reaches out his hands to them, palms up, the old Greek attitude of prayer like supplication. Across his life line there’s a shadow cast in black. “Of all the mice with bells, _you_ finally reached the kitty’s collar.”

“Save it, Moriarty,” one of the men snarls. Not the Welshman; a white-haired lean man with liver spots on his bony hands. “We didn’t call you here to _collar_ you.” He’s got Augustus’s flint-grey eyes in his sunken face, and it makes the hairs on the back of Sebastian’s neck raise. “The fact that we could track you down was just to get your attention.”

 _Something’s wrong here,_ Sebastian thinks, even without knowing what Jim came for.

Jim shifts – just slightly – switching his weight from his right foot to his left. Sebastian’s eyes snap to him. Something about the movement… something about the men at the table, cool and implacable in front of Jim’s great darkness. _This is most definitely going wrong_. The men at the table are afraid, but they’re nursing something else: a secret cradled on the table between them just out of sight.

“So why _did_ you give me a ring?” Jim asks. He’s still pretending to be amused, but he’s not. His grin falls a few millimeters short of its normal mega-watt brightness. Sebastian sways restlessly on his feet. No one’s so much as looked at him, yet. He can feel the air in the room burning down like a wick towards some dreadful and inevitable explosion.

“Look at him,” the Welshman sneers. “Pumped-up cock walking in here like he owns the place.”

“Settle down,” says one of the women, blonde with a lopped-off bob and glasses. “No need to gloat.”

“Gloat?” Jim asks. Tension thrums through him to Sebastian, the vibration of electricity building under Jim’s skin and arching outwards.

“You’re not walking out of here alive,” the blonde says calmly. She laces her fingertips on the table, cool and professional.

Jim’s smile turns into a smirk. “If you kill me – “

The Welshman interrupts him. “We’re aware of your insurance against hostile takeover, Moriarty.” It seems surreal. Jim isn’t the sort of person you _interrupt,_ cutting over like he’s just an ordinary human speaking words. Like the whole world doesn’t stop to listen when Jim Moriarty opens his mouth.

And yet this fat businessman with the bad hair-cut and his belt on the last notch is jeering at Jim, relishing the taste of defeat before it’s even in his mouth. Jim shifts his weight again, dangerously now. He’s still got the knife tucked into the back of his trousers. Maybe he’s thinking of using it.

 _It’s not going to be enough._ The tension on the air is breathless now. _They’re going to kill us. We need a plan, Jim. Hurry up._

Somehow Seb’s still trusting Jim to _have_ a plan.

One of the security guards at the other side of the room is standing awkward; his hip cocked unnaturally as if away from a pressure. Sebastian knows he’s carrying concealed. Jim probably knows, too. The air in the room starts to swirl and condense like storm clouds, and Sebastian can hear Jim’s breathing drop out of the audible range altogether: going shallow and silent.

“We know we’re all standing to lose money from your death,” the Welshman continues. He’s got silver rings on his thick fingers. The other men and women at the table are nodding. In the background, the secretary cowers. She knows what’s coming, Sebastian thinks. She knows what they’re about to do.

“A fair few of us might go under completely in the chaos after your web dissolves. You thought that was enough to protect you, am I right?” the Welshman leers at Jim. Jim doesn’t bother responding. “But a man like you doesn’t understand. Some things are more important than money. Some things are even more important than our lives.” People around the table are raising their chins with pride, full of a sense of _place_. Of belonging. They are part of something much bigger, their expressions seem to say. “You’re not a businessman, Moriarty. And you’re not one of us.”

 _Get us out of here, Jim,_ Sebastian thinks.

“Oh,” Jim says softly, “I know.” Weight dead on his feet. Hands limp at his sides. He’s in no position to move, let alone quickly.

And with no other warning the security guard pulls his pistol, like he means to use it.

Sebastian doesn’t get all the way through thinking about how he’s going to react. If he thought, maybe he would have hesitated. Maybe Tonywould come back to him, gurgling around a slit throat, wide eyes blaming Sebastian for his death. Maybe Sebastian would waver: maybe he’d let the guard get the shot off, and watch Jim choke on his own poisonous blood.

Seb’ll never know what _might_ have happened, because he doesn’t think. The only thing in his head, like a split-second cut of film spliced in in front of his eyes, is Jim at the piano. Jim, playing Bach with that relentless madcap genius, which can be neither denied nor controlled.

Jim plays Bach and the security guard is throwing back his coat and the next thing Sebastian knows he’s blowing by Jim like a semi on the highway, moving too fast to get a good picture of the reaction at the table. He doesn’t see anything but a blur of motion. He sees the lip of the table – his foot jumping up to set on it and vault him over – and the security guard’s gun, halfway up, drawing a bead. When they’re training the police, they say _twenty feet._ Twenty feet is the distance a man with a knife can close before you manage to squeeze off your first round. Any more than twenty feet, you haven’t got a shot. Even if you think you’re clear. Even if it’s just a knife.

Twenty feet –

Sebastian has ten feet. Sebastian, who’s no ordinary criminal.

If he doesn’t have a knife, he doesn’t need it. The barrel of the gun is just setting level when the palm of Seb’s hand hits it, propelled with the force of his leap over the table. He’s still moving fast, slipping in close where the guard’s shirt smells like cheap dry cleaning and fear. The guard gets a shot off so close to Sebastian’s head that all sound dissolves behind a white, silvery scream. Nerve endings dying. Sebastian reels, off balance, as the shockwave kills his eardrums. But it doesn’t matter; he’s in close, now, and this is what he was built to do. _Evolutionary perfection, oh yes, this, this is why I never felt guilty before_

Sebastian’s follow through hits the man in the stomach and then Sebastian is pivoting. Next blow to the back of the neck, fist tight with his thumb on the outside not to break. He can feel the knob of the security guard’s spine give under his knuckles. Then the man is on his knees and Sebastian pivots neatly on his toes, swinging his heel up and around and _down,_ through the back of the guard’s skull.

There’s a sickening _crunch,_ and a wet squelch as the man drops to the floor. There are fragments of bone in his hypothalamus, now. He won’t be getting up.

Maybe ten seconds has passed. Maybe the other men in the room are shouting. Sebastian doesn’t know; he can’t hear past the roar in his ears. There’s a second security guard, reaching for something in his back pocket, and it might be another gun. Jim might still be in danger.

Sebastian doesn’t feel himself move but he’s there, in front of the second man, who is red-headed and clean-shaved. Sebastian snaps his neck with two hands in a short, sharp motion, not even bothering to wait for Jim’s word.

Two bodies on the floor, now. Sebastian feels his chest rise and fall slow with his exhale. His heartbeat’s rushing in his ears beneath the deafening scream of the gunshot, and he can feel the sickly-anxious surge of adrenaline through his hands. They might be shaking.

Inhale. Exhale. There it is again, singing in his blood. _You were made for this._

_Oh god oh god yes_

Sebastian turns, slowly, back to Jim.

Jim is smiling, still. There’s a different edge to it, now: a lascivious promise, lingering in the shadows at the corner of his mouth. He looks like something from the darkest sort of fantasy, and there’s a hot surge of insistent heat in Sebastian’s stomach. Sebastian licks his lips. The moment drags out between them; it hardly seems important, what the other people in the room are doing. Jim’s eyes are dark and his pupils are blown. _I know. Afterwards I’ll answer your questions and ask some too, alone, in the dark of my bedroom, Sebastian, there._

Sebastian can see some of the suited men standing; one of the women has thrown over her chair, backing away to put her shoulders at the wall. They’re afraid. Of course they’re afraid. Sebastian has some idea how fast he’s moved, because Augustus used to time them. On Severin, the speed looks scary; this is how Sebastian knows that he must be terrifying.

It doesn’t matter. Fuck what he looks like. Jim, impossibly alive, holds out a hand. Sebastian pads over to him. The sound of Seb’s feet is audible in the room, and that’s the first clue Sebastian has that the ringing sound in his ears is dying, slowly away.

That, and he hears it when the Welshman breathes, “A Moran.”

Sebastian looks over sharply. The man is staring at Sebastian with wide disbelieving eyes, and there’s something about the terror in them – something more specific than the fear of Sebastian’s speed. Like he _knows,_ somehow, what Sebastian is.

It’s weird enough that Sebastian pauses, but Jim almost seems like he was expecting someone to notice.

“You knew I wasn’t a businessman,” Jim says. He’s still holding out his hand, so Sebastian takes it. Jim’s fingers stroke down Sebastian’s knuckles, slow and solicitous. He’s got callouses on his thumbs. “You’re right. And did you think I would bring an ordinary man with me? One bodyguard, for _me…_ you should have known.” Sebastian stares down at Jim, questions stillborn in his head. _After…_ he thinks, _after, I’ll ask them._

_In the dark of your room, Jim, there_

“A Moran,” the Welshman repeats. His face is white with dying, like he’s already a corpse. The man must know the family from Augustus’s politics or the orchestras, but it’s not recognition in his voice. It’s _reverence._ “How…?” The man asks.

Jim smiles blissfully. He lets go of Sebastian’s hand draws his knife. “Not a businessman,” he repeats again, stepping forward, “But something else entirely…” Back in control again. Sebastian turns to watch Jim walk to the head of the table, and he can feel it on the air. There’s nothing left in this room but Sebastian and Jim and corpses, whether or not the others know it yet. “I guess I’m right in assuming the rest of you came unarmed –“

“Give us your terms,” says the white-haired man, his gnarled hands shaking with impotent rage. “Whatever they are –“

Jim laughs. “Terms?” The air in the room is getting colder. Jim tosses his knife back and forth between his hands, as if it’s an extension of his body rather than a separate thing. He seems to know where it is without looking, his eyes glued down the table at the quivering businessmen. _And,_ Sebastian reminds himself, _the poor terrified secretary…_

“ _Terms?”_ Jim asks, rolling the word over savouringly in his mouth. “My terms, gentlemen, are this. I’ll leave one of you alive to sing the story to my other little birdies. The rest of you will die screaming. _No one_ threatens me.” Knife in his right hand, now. Jim switches his grip, taking it back-handed and ready for the quick short sweeps of a streetfight. “No one.”

They try to run, of course. They scramble for the doors in a great rush, but it doesn’t matter. The doors on the far side of the room are locked and Jim comes in behind them like the plagues of Egypt, the knife held out to his right side near the sharp bone of his hip. He sways between them like a dancer, short brutal arcs of his knife echoing the strict _staccato_ of his fingers on piano keys. Great sheets of blood follow his movements like a reprise, spattering out from each sweep of his arms. The white-haired man dies still at the table, pumping his throat out onto its smooth glass surface. The next man spatters off the walls, crushed tight to the bodies of his colleagues in front of them. The women, too. Screaming. Begging for mercy.

This time, there’s no quiver of guilt in Sebastian. Just a grim, blunt satisfaction.

They tried to kill Jim, after all. They tried to silence that brilliant insanity forever.

When Jim slips the knife in between the Welshman’s ribs, stepping over the packed corpses to reach him at the far door, that’s it; it’s over, and Sebastian feels nothing. “What did he mean?” Sebastian asks as soon as it’s done, while Jim’s still bending to clean his knife on the Welshman’s Gucci suit.

Jim straightens, turning away from the corpses to Sebastian. He doesn’t put the knife away. His expression is flawlessly blank: Sebastian might as well be talking to the statue of David. “Shoot the security camera.”

“What?”

“There.” Jim points with the knife, glinting in the phosphorescent light; up ahead of him, above the door, there’s a small camera with a blinking red light. “Take their man’s gun. Don’t worry about fingerprints –“

Because god knows there’s a wealth of DNA evidence lying around already. Sebastian assumes Jim has people to deal with that; it seems like something Jim would have. Obediently, he picks his way between the fallen bodies to the security guard he’d killed. His shoes squelch on the carpet. It’s soaked through; oily liquid gore and fat going straight through the cheap linoleum. The small room smells like an abattoir, chokingly thick. Sebastian bends over gingerly, trying not to breathe through his nose. The gun is still dangling from the dead security guard’s fingers, and they curl around it; lifting the dead man’s hand when Sebastian lifts the gun. Seb shakes the pistol a bit and the security guard’s knuckles fall back to the carpet with a wet, muddy sound.

It still doesn’t seem to matter. Maybe later Seb’ll feel bad. He doesn’t think so.

The pistol is a 1911. Sebastian checks and there’s two rounds left, so he grits his teeth against the sound and pulls the trigger at the camera. The red light shatters into a hundred pieces. Then there’s nothing left but the corpses and another round of ringing, shrill sound in his ears. And Jim, of course.

At least this time Jim waits patiently, sheathing his blade and folding his arms over his chest while Sebastian goes from deaf to functioning. “Tell me how that man knew who I was,” he says when he can hear himself think again, borrowed gun still in his hands.

Jim looks at Seb evenly, still completely devoid of expression. There’s a dark smudge of gore on his cheekbone, underneath the thick wealth of his lashes. “Didn’t I say not to question me until it was over?”

“It is ov –“

Jim gestures with his knife again. This time it’s over Sebastian’s shoulder, and Sebastian turns. He’d nearly forgotten. Maybe he would have forgotten completely if Jim hadn’t been there.

Maybe she was counting on that.

In the corner the secretary is balled up, pushing herself down as deep as she can go into the bare solace between the walls and the floor. Her hair is mussed, falling over her face, and her lips are pink-tinged and wet with hysteria. She can’t be more than eighteen.

“She’s a child,” Sebastian says, softly. Jim is silent. Sebastian feels his mouth go dry, all the saliva draining out under his tongue to somewhere deeper. The nausea is back. The gun in his hands feels too heavy, somehow, dragging towards the ground. “You said you’d let one live.”

Wrong thing to say, again. Jim tilts his head back to look Sebastian in the eyes. “I think I also said something about not questioning me,” he reminds Sebastian. His voice is gentle. It’s an act of kindness, and Sebastian knows it. In the silence he can hear the secretary’s teeth chattering. Jim’s giving Sebastian an out. Another one. _I won’t take no for an answer. Obey me now or we do this the hard way._ “Kill her, Sebastian.”

_She’s a child._

Sebastian swallows. “No.”

“What was that?”

This time, Sebastian’s voice is firmer. “I said no.” They stare at each other for a moment over the words, the thick smell of the blood between them, the secretary’s short helpless noises like a small animal in pain.

Finally, Jim shrugs. “Alright. I’ll do it.” He draws his blade again and flips it in the air for effect, catching it smoothly before he starts forward. The heel of his shoe crunches into the nose of one of the corpses, crushing its face concave. Jim barely notices. He keeps his balance effortlessly, walking forward, the silver shine of his knife dulled red.

And Sebastian steps into his way. “She’s a child, Jim.” Seb’s still holding the gun; not that it matters, really.

“She knew what she was doing, coming here,” Jim replies evenly. “Out of the way, there’s a dear.”

Sebastian knows he’ll kill himself for this later, but he can’t help it. She doesn’t even look old enough to have a drink to celebrate surviving. “I won’t let you.”

Jim raises an eyebrow, amused. “You’re going to stop me?”

Sebastian can’t answer and Jim presses it, his cruel mouth curving wryly around the words. “ _You_ are going to stand in front of _me,_ and tell me what I can and can not do.”

When he puts it that way, it seems incredibly stupid. But Sebastian can’t help himself. There are lines – he hadn’t thought there were but there are lines, even in his torn-apart heart. Sebastian raises the gun. He wraps both hands around it, right-over-left, taking the proper grip. “No,” he says.

Gun in his hands. Knife to the dog’s throat.

Jim’s face goes cold; colder than Sebastian thought possible. The darkness never really left him but now it folds around him closer, those shades and shades of menacing black like feathers on wings. Sebastian hears Jim draw breath into the stillness and it rings on the air. It’s so quiet that the motion of the knife, the restless figure-eight it’s making in Jim’s hand, sings aloud.

“Don’t stand in my way,” Jim cautions. Too late for it now. Sebastian can’t say anything. If anything was going to convince him, it’s already happened. Sebastian knows what Jim is, now. He knows that Jim burns in him like a forest fire, like every sick love he ever dreamed about. Seb’s got the taste of Jim stuck in his mouth, the way Jim’s skin had looked like ivory in the darkness burned into his eyelids. He can hear Jim playing Bach whenever he draws breath, like his lungs are a harp tuned to Jim’s music. Every motion of air plays Jim’s sound through him, every single moment imprints Jim into his skin.

But still, he can’t step aside.

Maybe if this wasa great and tragic romance they’d stand there forever, but Jim’s not human. He doesn’t have human weaknesses. He sees Sebastian isn’t going to move, and there isn’t any more melodrama in it. Jim shrugs one shoulder, carelessly, and –

And what?

Did something happen? Sebastian is on his knees. How did he get there?

He has the sense that he’s fallen, but there is…

_Christ Jesus Christ oh god fuck oh Christ_

Pain flares through Sebastian’s side like a screaming wildfire, all at once. It bursts over him like he is rotten fruit being squeezed, a waterfall breaking under his skin. White and hot and devouring. It eats him. It rips through him and he knows – he knows beyond a doubt – that he has been _rent,_ through the stomach to the spine, severing his hips from his ribs entirely – one great sweep of a sword, laying him open, he knows his guts are spilling on the ground. Sebastian keels over to one side and somehow he knows that the blood he’s falling into is his own.

_Oh god oh Christ oh fuck oh_

He didn’t even see Jim move –

But Jim did move. Jim must have moved, because he’s standing over Sebastian now, grabbing the gun from Sebastian’s twitching, helpless fingers. “Such a pity,” he says, somewhere far away. Darkness floods through Sebastian’s vision, painting strange shadows on the beautiful lines of Jim’s face. It seems like he’s glowing. _He must have been so fast,_ Sebastian thinks, dizzily. The words drift through his mind, echoing in a horrifying emptiness. _So fast. So fast. So fast._

 _He stabbed me,_ Sebastian thinks in wonderment.

Jim raises the gun. His face is blank. Someone is screaming; it must be the secretary. Sebastian remembers there was a secretary. He feels strange; like his whole body is asleep. He seems to be drifting, somewhere far away from Jim’s finger tightening on the trigger. _Such a pity._

_He must have been so fast._

The last thing Sebastian sees is the flare of the gunshot, as Jim kills the girl.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbetaed - any mistakes are mine. Merry Christmas.

Sebastian comes to as they drag him out of the elevator.

He hears the sound – the ding before the doors open. Then there’s a soft rush of air, and the echoing sound of the lobby opening up in front of them. Someone grabs Sebastian roughly under the arms. They drag him painfully forward, his toes bumping at the lip of the elevator doors. One of Sebastian’s shoulders pops with the pressure being put on it, but he doesn’t have it in him to scream. His feet scrape on the marble floors, his shins hanging limply from his knees. His muscles don’t seem to answer when he tries to move. Every breath he takes rattles in his lungs, painful and harsh, searing against the wound in his side.

When they drop him his weight falls bonelessly to the ground, nothing but a jumble of bruises and wet sticky pain. There is cold marble against his cheek. He can’t open his eyes.

“What have you _done?_ ” Valentyna whispers. She sounds like someone’s died; Sebastian wonders, idly, who it was. There’s something very wrong with his head. He feels cold sweat beading on his skin.

“It’s a _scratch_ ,” Jim snaps irritably. His voice drifts into Sebastian’s head muggily, like he’s speaking through a layer of foam. “Stitch him up and put some painkillers in him.”

Valentyna sounds worried. “We could make it to a hospital –“

“ _Valentyna.”_

Then, silence.

A disapproving silence so long Sebastian half thinks they must have walked away and left him. He’s dizzy, his thoughts huge and ponderous in his head. Finally, Valentyna says – the words clipped – “I will get the doctor.”

Her steps echo off across the lobby. Sebastian wonders how far she has to go. It seems far; the sound of her walking bounces and reverbs rhythmically off the walls, never fading away. Sebastian watches as it rolls around his head, each beat of her heels pressing closer in on him –

Then, darkness.

Darkness – And –

Sebastian’s eyes snap open with no sense of having missed any time at all. He’s awake. He’s awake with a vengeance, surging upwards, a hand on his chest – “Hold him down!” – and artificial adrenaline singing like Valkyries in his veins.

“Jesus,” Sebastian gasps. He almost chokes on the richness of the oxygen in his lungs. He feels like he could run a marathon – like he could deadlift a city. There’s a man’s hand splayed on his chest but Sebastian brushes it aside and starts to get up. The pain in his side registers distantly. It doesn’t seem to matter. Sebastian shrugs it off without an effort. There’s things to do, after all. The dead bodies upstairs and the quivering girl gone still and explanations must be made –

God, he feels like he’s got a storm underneath his skin: he’s all buzzing electric pressure bursting outwards.

Cool fingertips touch his forehead. “Ah-ah,” Jim says. “Lie still, Moran. You’re done.”

Sebastian blinks and Jim swims into view. Jim’s frowning, slightly, an out-of-place hair fallen over into the blood spatter on his face as he leans forward over Sebastian. Seb blinks again and the scene clears for him; appearing all at once in merciless detail. There’s men swarmed around them now, in white coats and hazmat suits. With the drugs in Sebastian’s system, the light around them seems to glow; casting a neon halo over the clean-up team’s hive-like movements. Outside, the street is closed. It’s all very official looking; a pest-control truck and a signage person directing traffic around a wide series of orange cones in the street. Of course that won’t stop anyone with a zoom-photo lens, but Sebastian doesn’t doubt that the street maintenance is scheduled and the CCTV is pointed the other way. No one’s looking to see what happened here. The closest men to Sebastian look like paramedics: one’s packing up a case and there are bloodstained scissors and a curved needle soaked in black gore beside his bent knee. When Sebastian presses a hand to his side he feels the coarse cotton of a bandage, the bumpy lines of stitches underneath.

Jim stands up, his fingers dropping from Sebastian’s forehead. He’s stripped to a soft black t-shirt and well-fitted grey jeans, and his hands are clean even if his face isn’t. He smiles at Sebastian, lips washed white in the fluorescent light. His expression is terse, and it might be nerves. His hair forms a loose nimbus of curls around his temples. “You’ve been injured,” he says.

“You stabbed me,” Sebastian accuses, remembering.

“You disobeyed.” Jim looks like he regrets it, but his eyes slide – ever so slightly – to the doctor, and Sebastian understands. There’s an image to be upheld here, even if Sebastian doesn’t understand quite what it is. Jim can’t afford to apologize; not here, not in front of them. Jim’s lips suck tight into his mouth for a minute. “You had questions,” he tells Sebastian crisply, “I have answers. Shall I have you carried to the Maybach? I can meet you at mine…”

Insulted, Sebastian retorts, “I can walk.”

It makes Jim smile wanly. “No, I don’t think you can.” He gestures with two fingers, and turns away. Two men step forward, dressed like hospital orderlies with disposable covers over their non-mark shoes. They have breathing masks drawn up over their faces, hairnets over their heads. In the bulky white of the containment suits, it’s impossible to tell their builds.

And Jim is slipping between them, already disappearing –

“Wait – “

Jim pauses in the crowd and looks over his shoulder. The men around him take no notice; like ants on a track they continue in their movements, breaking and flowing around him like water. The two in orderlies’ clothes step to either side of Sebastian, and haul him up to his knees. It makes his head turn over dizzily in his skull, black spots dancing in his vision.

“Wait,” Sebastian repeats. Jim’s listening; he fixes Sebastian with a patient stare that makes Seb’s mouth go dry. Seb licks his lips. “I won’t kill children for you,” he tells Jim, feeling each word form sacred on his mouth like a vow. Maybe it’s the drugs. Maybe it’s blood loss making him dizzy. He feels the ring of truth in what he’s said, and he’s proud of it; at least, if he has a line, it’s children.

Jim doesn’t care about vows or truth. His mouth twitches. “Next time, you will,” he tells Sebastian, with nothing but the flat implacability of absolute belief. A chill runs over Sebastian’s skull to the back of his neck and down his spine. Jim catches it – somehow – and smiles.

_Next time._

He’s probably right.

“Take him to the car,” Jim commands the men holding Sebastian upright. As they do Sebastian watches Jim pick his way over to the security desk, a black shadow slipping between the white figures like ghosts. _Next time._ It would be easier, if Sebastian just let it happen. He can already feel the cool, smooth restraints of fascination locking around his wrists. If he gave up, if he let Jim make whatever he wanted out of Sebastian’s life –

They reach the street.

They step down onto the curb and Sebastian sees one of the orderlies put his hand out for the Maybach’s door. Seb can smell the wet pavement and feel the cold prick of snowflakes starting to drift down onto his skin. There’s slush on the streets already, even though they’re salted, and brown slurry and ice is starting to catch on the corners of the pavement. The inside of the Maybach looks warm and welcoming, and Sebastian feels an exhaustion so deep it’s like a bruise. He’s tired. He’s so tired of guilt and shame and fear. He’s so tired of resisting. He wants to slip under, into the anaesthesia of Jim with a relief like coming home. The lights of the Maybach blur and glow, and it makes Sebastian feel ill so he shuts his eyes. He wants to give in. He knows he will. Only a matter of time.

_And I will sell my soul to him, oh god, I will kill children_

_“Sebastian!”_

Seb tries to open his eyes but something about the molasses-thick numbness of the anaesthesia keeps them closed. “Well, hello,” Jim says, gloating, “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Let him go, _”_ the first voice responds, cold and steely. There’s the click of a hammer being pulled back. “Now.”

“Don’t think I will, thanks.”

Sebastian manages to get his eyes open. Somehow. Through the haze of the drugs he sees John, on the curb, his feet planted wetly in the falling snow. There are flakes of it caught in his golden hair, starting to melt. Jim’s got his back to Sebastian and the Maybach, white ice limning his collar. Between them, the gun is level. John’s aim is good; his posture textbook army, one hand wrapped around the other, one foot forward, his weight balanced and level so the recoil won’t take him off-guard.

“I saw what you did to the security guard,” John says flatly.

“Did you?” Jim’s head tilts. “Is that supposed to frighten me?”

“You’re a monster.” John’s got his finger on the trigger but he doesn’t look jumpy: just ready. “You want to make him into one, too.” It’s surprisingly perceptive of him, but Sebastian’s seen that before; that quick-witted surety that John is capable of. It startles Jim; Sebastian watches as Jim shifts his weight, slowly, to the other foot, like the tack of a ship in a storm.

Jim’s not fooling anymore. His voice slips into a lower register, deep with warning. “You really think he’s not already?”

If it’s meant to be a threat, John refuses to hear it. “I know what he is,” he replies sharply, the muzzle of the gun jerking slightly upwards with the force of his words. “I’m a soldier. So’s he. Doesn’t make him like you.”

Jim laughs, softly, like cat’s paws. There’s no real amusement in it; it’s a power-play, trying to put himself above John. “ _Soldier_ doesn’t begin to cover what Sebastian is.”

Maybe that’s true. Sebastian’s head is still reeling dizzily, so he shuts his eyes again; letting his head hang. Each time he inhales the bottom of his ribs presses against his injury from the inside, until he almost thinks he can feel the bone straining at his stitches. Something terrifyingly like the warm embrace of sleep pushes up over him, and Sebastian forces his eyes open again.

Neither of them has moved; they’re frozen, facing off, Jim’s men not daring to interfere in case the gun trained on Jim goes off. “Drop him,” John repeats. He enunciates each word slow and careful, making sure Jim takes his meaning. “I’m not going to let you do – whatever it is you’re planning on doing to him.”

There’s a short silence where Jim considers John and Sebastian can almost see the wheels in Jim’s head turning. He’s figuring John out; sighting down those faultlines that have always run in John’s soul. John’s quick insight might have startled him, but it was never more than a temporary weakness. Jim isn’t going to lose this. He takes his time, slow and careful, his eyes flicking over John’s frost-white fingertips and scowling mouth.

“Sebastian isn’t yours, Johnny-boy,” Jim says, finally. He crosses his arms in front of himself, smiling indolently. The expression is light and airy, dancing over his face without really seeming to touch it. “He never was. He was on loan from me. You think he didn’t know it? For a heartbeat? You think he wasn’t fucking you and _dreaming_ about what I could do to him? When he wasn’t fucking _me?_ ”

“He’s hurt,” John insists, refusing to acknowledge Jim’s taunts. The gun doesn’t waver. “And you’re taking advantage.”

“I’m giving him what he wants. Nothing personal. He had to have you to figure out what he wanted was me.” Jim smiles, wan and cruel. “It was never about you.”

“I don’t care what it was about,” John snaps, tight with frustration. “You think this is some sort of – some _contest_ between the two of us? Seb deserves better than that. Even if he never sees me again –“ For the first time, John’s eyes slide past Jim to Sebastian. They’re narrow and flinty in the yellow light of the street but still, unmistakeably, blue: the colour of robin’s eggs or clear, open skies. That blue seems out of place in Jim’s dim and grungy world. Like John’s come onto this street from a different earth entirely, one where Tony went home to his two and a half children in peace.

Seb can see the path he might chose, light up like neon. _You could walk away from this. You could go with John. Into the clear blue skies –_

 _And which world do **you** belong to?_ Something treacherous whispers, in the dark of Seb’s heart. _Where does red fit in there? Where are the gaping tongues of Augustus’s dogs?_

“Even if he never sees me again,” John says, staring straight into Sebastian’s eyes. “He deserves better than you.”

Sebastian’s breathing goes shallow. He should think of a response, he knows. He should think of some way to tell John that he’ll never be good enough to deserve what John’s doing. The whole world of dull grey and clear blue doesn’t have a place for Sebastian.

He tells himself that the anesthetic keeps him from talking: he tells himself that he hangs there, limp and frozen, because he has no other choice. The guard’s hands dig into his arms.

It’s a lie. Sebastian could speak. He tells himself he can’t, but he could. _Don’t do this. I don’t deserve it._ He could open his mouth and say it, but for some reason, he doesn’t. He holds John’s eyes and falls into them like the clear blue of the sky is a homecoming. He can taste them when he breathes, the acrid chemical burn of his pain fading for a heartbeat. The barrel of the gun lowers a hair, and John opens his mouth to say –

Sebastian will never know what John intended to say. It’s then, taking advantage of the moment when John is entirely focused on Sebastian, that Jim moves.Someone shouts “No!” and it takes Sebastian a moment to realize it’s his own voice – leaping up sharp and terrified.

Jim’s quick – Jim’s always quick – and the knife is in his hand in a heartbeat. John has time to get a single wild shot off, his eyes snapping back to the place where Jim had stood a moment ago. Doesn’t matter. He might as well have fired over his head. Jim’s moving and the gunshot is too late, and the bullet misses by a mile. Sebastian’s world sings with the shrill scream of deafness again, and Jim slides to the side and turns. It all seems to happen in strobelight flashes, disconnected moments without movement between them. The next thing Sebastian sees is Jim shoved up close to John, the bloody blade already out and drawing backwards.

If Sebastian wasn’t what he was, John would die in the next breath. There’s no way an ordinary man could get out of the position Seb’s in in time. The guards holding him are trained professionals and Jim is faster than any human has a right to be. Sebastian knows that – knows the blurring speed with which Jim moves, here one heartbeat and gone the next. He knows the short brutal arcs of Jim’s knife when Jim’s in the thick of it, the gory poetry of his motion.

But Sebastian isn’t an ordinary man. He’s a Moran.

Sebastian throws the men holding him off without drawing breath, falling forward when they let him go. The pavement and slush loom up in his face but Sebastian’s toes are planted and he’s already moving. He turns the downwards momentum forward, throwing himself flat-out face-first. There’s an arc of hot pain like lightning through his side and the concrete blurs beneath him. He hits on his shoulder and rolls, into Jim’s shins, knocking him off balance.

John is a soldier, with a soldier’s reflexes. He doesn’t need much and the split-second Jim’s reeling is more than enough. John’s short-fingered capable hands snap up. One hand on Jim’s wrist, the other drawing back still holding the gun. John sucker-punches Jim with the gun wrapped in his fist and Jim’s head snaps backwards, his fingers going loose on the knife. Sebastian hears it clatter sideways, out of reach, like an audible mirror of the _crunch_ of Jim’s cheek under John’s knuckles.

“ _Boss!”_ Valentyna’s voice cracks like a whip.

Sebastian scrambles to his feet. Jim’s recovering quickly, hissing like a snake, his pale bony hands curled up into claws. “Hold your fire!” he shouts, over his shoulder, as Sebastian shoves himself between them. Seb gets a good look in Jim’s face with a scant inch of air separating them. Jim’s eyes are wide and furious, the white showing all the way around his iris. His teeth are bared, canines slick with spit and sharp as daggers. There’s a bruise already starting on his cheekbone. “Don’t you dare, Sebastian – “ And John’s hand wraps in the back of Sebastian’s shirt. John’s breath is ragged and terrified between Sebastian’s shoulderblades. “Don’t you _dare – “_

Sebastian rips his eyes away from Jim and turns, grabbing John’s shoulder. He drags John backwards, stumbling, finding his feet. It hurts, turning his back on Jim. Like a physical thing. Like Jim’s eyes are knives through Sebastian’s spine.

But it doesn’t matter. He can’t let John do this – can’t let John walk to his death because Sebastian was too weak to resist the temptation of what Jim is. He feels John’s hand wrap in his, warm and solid, the comforting callouses of John’s fingers scratching against his knuckles.

Then they’re running, flat out, sprinting away from the commotion and the wail of sirens starting up in the distance, and Jim is falling away behind them.

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

Three blocks at a dead sprint, Sebastian’s hand tight in John’s, John’s breath hard beside him. John’s palms are hot. On every step Sebastian feels the injury in his side flare like the flash of a lighthouse, bright with the impact of his heels. The painkillers are helping, though. A little. Sebastian still hasn’t thought about what he’s done.

He’s left Jim behind. Christ knows what Jim’ll do now –

 _And if he kills John?_ Something whispers in Sebastian’s ear. _If that’s the price you pay for disobeying him?_ Sebastian’s stomach sloshes around nauseatingly. _He wouldn’t kill John,_ he tells himself. Maybe Jim wouldn’t _care_ enough to kill John; maybe it means nothing to him to let Sebastian go.

For some reason, the thought makes Sebastian’s stomach drop even lower. He’s chewing it on the edges of his teeth when John slows, footsteps stuttering to a halt. Sebastian slides a little, in the snow, his breath hot and clouding in front of his face.

“In here,” John pants, and shoves Sebastian in front of him into an alleyway. It cuts between a Chinese grocery and a noodle shop, the steam from the noodle-shop’s kitchen white against the sky like an oversize mirror of Sebastian’s breath.

Sebastian looks over his shoulder and finds John doing the same thing, searching behind them for headlights or pursuit. There’s nothing. Sebastian has time to consider this as he slows to a walk down the mouth of the alleyway. It’s empty; full of nothing but trashcans and bags of plastic garbage, freezing in the winter cold.

Sebastian turns to face John five feet in. “What –“ he starts.

Then John fists his hands in Sebastian’s lapels, and slams Seb back against the alley wall. Sebastian’s breath leaves him with a pained groan. His side might as well be on fire. He can feel himself wincing, and presses a hand to his stomach – curling over a little, protective of his injury.

“What the fuck,” he manages to grunt.

John ignores that; he ignores everything Sebastian’s doing. The snowflakes drift between them, and John’s breath is white between his teeth. He fixes Sebastian with a look, blue eyes like chips of ice. “Tell me,” he says. The bricks of the alley are frozen cold against Sebastian’s spine, and John’s face is set into hard rigid lines.

Sebastian stares down at him. The painkillers are still working their magic and even though Sebastian can feel the wetness of ruptured stitches trickling down his side, he’s still standing. Still only breathing a little bit faster than he should be. He manages to catch his breath, and asks – only somewhat tersely – “Tell you what?”

John’s blue eyes harden. “You know damn well what. Everything. This time, don’t lie.” He presses a little harder on Sebastian, forcing him back into the wall. Sebastian feels his bones grind on the hard edges of the brick.

It’s warmer in the alleyway than it was on the street; the hot air from the noodle shop’s kitchen pumping out steam. The snow is falling faster now, a thick white flurry that obscures everything except for the dark linear line of the alley. There’s a neon sign buzzing in the distance and the soft rush of cars, going home through the falling snow. A few of the trashbags keeping them company are starting to disappear, hunkering down under a thin covering of white ice like lace.

Sebastian breathes in, tasting the frost.

“Tell me,” John repeats. Softer.

“It’s not that easy,” Sebastian says. He shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to look into John’s face. “I don’t know…” _It all happened so fast,_ or maybe, _I was drunk, I was drunk on him._

“You wanted it, didn’t you?” John asks. It seems odd to think of him as merciless, but that’s what he sounds like: cold and absolutely implacable. Sebastian opens his eyes and when he sees John, he knows. All the faultlines are frozen over: John is a hunk of granite covered in ice, every weak spot solid through the sheer force of John’s will. He’s angry. Sebastian knows it. But somehow, anger doesn’t heat John up; doesn’t make him reckless and hasty. Instead it hunkers him down, turns John into a fortress. John is waiting for Sebastian to explain himself, and if there’s nothing patient in John’s face there’s the clear expectation that he’ll wait forever.

Sebastian lets himself breathe, for a moment, before he can’t take John’s eyes anymore and he has to look away again. “Yeah,” he admits, hating himself for it. “I wanted him.” Subtle distinction. John doesn’t miss it.

“He wanted you to _kill people,_ Sebastian. You were going to do that?”

Sebastian doesn’t say anything. They both know what his answer is. Something hot pricks at the corners of Sebastian’s eyes, but it’s not tears. It’s frustration – exhaustion – Sebastian is just so fucking sick of being what he is. But he can’t change. He hates himself with a pure, hollow zen, and it’s worse with John here. Because John, of course, is a good man. John thinks Sebastian can be better. That belief is worse than anything Augustus could ever say.

Seb feels John’s hands loosen in his collar, and his back separates a fraction of an inch from the wall.

“Christ, Seb,” John whispers. All the force in him gone, now. Broken by the abject humiliation of Sebastian’s surrender.

_I wish I was dead._

Seb feels warm, trembling hands cupping his face. “Sebastian,” John murmurs. His thumbs stroke circles on Seb’s cheeks, brushing at the cold rough stubble. “Don’t.”

Seb’s tried not to. He’s tried and fought and it doesn’t mean anything. He can’t be anything other than what he is. He’s poison; he’s cancer. Everything he touches turns to rot and he can’t stop any more than he can bring himself under control. If he did it all over again, he’d still end up here. He’d still break John’s heart. He’d still fail Jim. He can’t even be corrupted well enough to suit the monsters. Sebastian is lower than that; he’s not even inhuman. He’s nothing. He’s nothing.

The skin on Sebastian’s lips is broken and when he parts them to say something nothing comes out.

“Sebastian,” John says again. “Look at me.” Somehow Sebastian manages to open his eyes. He sees John, smiling; a soft and fragile thing. “I knew,” John tells him, with that curious wry humour that’s unique to John. Self-depreciating – or does it depreciate Sebastian? – or is it just John’s even way of looking at things, seeing them as they are? “I knew you were running after him.”

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian mumbles, through his broken lips.

“It’s okay.” John smiles again. He presses himself close to Sebastian, sharing the heat of his body, and rests his head on Sebastian’s shoulder. He’s no longer holding Sebastian against the wall violently; now it seems like he’s cradling Seb, shielding Seb from the wider world with the small expanse of his back. After a moment, Seb’s arms come up. He wraps them around John. Over John’s head he can see the snow falling, small pricks of white against the blackness of the sky.

“I know what it’s like to miss the war,” John tells the muscles of Sebastian’s shoulder, his mouth muffled as he speaks into Sebastian’s shirt. “And I know we can’t live like this. It’s killing us both. But you don’t have to go with him. We could find somewhere. I saw what happened, Sebastian – I saw you turn aside. You didn’t want to kill that man. I know you think you’re like him, but you’re not.” John’s grip tightens, his fingers so tight in Sebastian’s shirt they must be losing circulation. Sebastian can barely hear him, now. “There are still places in the world where they hire mercenaries, you know. We could do that. We could go to Somalia – Iran. Soldiers of fortune, you and me.”

Sebastian lowers his head and inhales the clean, sweet scent of John’s hair.

“We can walk away from it all,” John whispers.

Sebastian shuts his eyes and holds John tight while the snow falls over them both.

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

Sebastian expects to hear from Augustus. He expects Severin to come knocking. He thinks if he’ll face that, he’ll simply crumple: hot steam and metal and cold water, imploding him down until he’s nothing but the smallest possible version of himself.

So, he doesn’t go home. They go to John’s instead.

“What do you mean you’re not going to report him?” John asks, curled up on the couch with his feet tucked under his thighs.

“I’m not.” Sebastian rubs his hands over his face across from John in the armchair. “I can’t.”

“You didn’t…” John hesitates. “You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

Sebastian laughs, a short humourless sound. “No. I didn’t kill anyone.” The lie comes easily, maybe because it doesn’t matter. Whether or not he broke the security guards neck – whether or not he’s _guilty –_ it has nothing to do with turning Jim in. His hands drop away from his face. “It’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

Sebastian considers this, looking over John’s shoulder at the faded wallpaper. It’s the obvious question, but somehow he doesn’t have an answer. He wraps the blanket around him a little closer over his shoulders, curling his knuckles up inside so his hands will stay warm. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “I wanted to. You know that.”

John sighs shortly through his nose and shifts impatiently, folding his hands in his lap so he doesn’t have to figure out what to do with them. “You didn’t, though.” As if that’s the important thing; Sebastian can hear John repeating the phrase, over and over in his head. _You didn’t kill anyone. You didn’t kill anyone. You didn’t kill anyone._ As if that meant anything.

We all have lines in the sand, he supposes. For John, it’s _killing someone._ Any perverse desire of Sebastian’s is fine, as long as he never actually acted on it. Sebastian aches with the sheer stupidity of it. _I did. And I wanted to. If he’d waited a little more I would have killed Tony for him, too – for the sheer joy of seeing him smile. I wonder if he’d have grinned at me and traced his fingers through the blood to mark my face like war paint. I wonder if he’d have said, “you’re a bit like me, you know.”_

Out loud, he just says, “Jim could implicate me anyways,” watching the wallpaper carefully.

John’s eyes are intent on Seb’s face. “If you told the truth – “

“We both know I did more than enough to go to jail. Besides, Augustus –“ And there Sebastian’s voice fails him. They both sit in silence for a moment, listening to the traffic go by outside.

“I’m sorry,” John says.

“Me too.”

Another siren goes by outside, a fire engine this time, and Sebastian imagines a house fire in the distant city; foundations crumbling, glass melting, support beams slowly working their way to death in ashes. “So,” John asks, “Another week to the concert.”

And something Jim said drags itself up out of Sebastian’s mind.

“He’ll be gone,” Seb tells John. Then he realizes what that means, and rubs his thumb and forefinger over his eyes. He can feel John staring at him. “Jim said – he gave me until the concert. I think he’s leaving, after that.”

“Well.” The relief is evident in John’s voice. They sit across from each other in John’s living room with a wide gulf of silence between them, and the city outside is dark. “That’s that, then. After the concert, it’s all over.”

“Yes,” Sebastian agrees, “That’s that.” And he supposes it is.

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

**A week later –the concert hall.**

“Sebastian.”

Seb turns from the rustling audience, letting the curtain swing back into place.

Jim is waiting, the dark velvet shadows of the concert hall soft on his face. There’s a faint glimmer of light, somewhere far behind him, and the shadows of the rest of the orchestra moving back and forth over the floor like ghosts.

“I’m leaving,” he tells Sebastian, simply, no theatrics. “Afterwards.”

Sebastian nods. He’s been expecting it – ever since he said the words to John, he knew he’d hear them from Jim. “Where will you go?”

“Madrid. I have business.”

There’s a long silence between them and Sebastian thinks he should say something but he’s honestly, honestly not got anything to say. _Take me with you? Don’t go?_ “What am I supposed to do with that?” he asks, finally. If what was between them was a forest fire, this is the ashes. This is acres of land charred and barren, charcoal and black salted earth.

Jim rocks his weight back onto his heels, swaying, and sighs. Jim’s hair is tucked neatly back into place, and Sebastian can imagine how it would muss if he were to run his hands through it.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Jim drawls, finally, “Suppose I thought you might want to come.”

“I’m sor –“

But Jim cuts Seb off. He laughs, softly, faint and musical in the lingering dark. “No, Sebastian. I’m sorry. I’m the sorry one. I thought you were more than you are, but you’re not.” He raises his eyes and fixes Sebastian with that dark, glittering stare; like the exoskeleton of some alien insect. “I’m sorry you’re what you are and I’m only glad I got out on the ground floor.”

It hits Sebastian like Jim’s knife, to the side, into the soft flesh of his stomach. Seb feels himself flinch but he refuses to fall backwards. “Get out of here,” he whispers, quiet in the dark.

“Goodbye, Sebastian,” Jim replies. He raises two fingers to his head, and saunters away. The door clicks shut behind him so quietly that Sebastian knows the audience won’t hear, but still. He hears. He hears it like the crack of bones breaking, like a gunshot. Sebastian raises his eyes to the ceiling, but if there is a god there, he’s absent. All Sebastian sees is the mechanics of the theatre: the wires and platforms and the still hanging lights.

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

The crowd is hushed when the musicians start filing out and taking their seats. Sebastian watches from the wings. His cue comes later: when everyone’s sat down and ready, breathless with anticipation. He sees Jim sinking into the piano chair with an elaborate flourish of his suit coat like the trill at the end of an aria. Sherlock is a whip-thin lash of tension, whispering hissing violent commands to the other violins. They sit straight, chins up, spines rigid. Sebastian sees Molly shoot a lingering glance at Jim, and there’s something open and bleeding in her eyes.

John marches straight to the drums and sits down without fanfare, eyes forward. Sebastian knows he’s fighting not to look at Jim.

_That’s that, then._

_Is it? Is this it?_

_Am I always going to burn, thinking about him?_

Sebastian hushes the thought as soon as it appears, snuffing it down somewhere deep inside him where it can’t make his stomach ache like a sickness. He looks out at the crowd again to distract himself. If Augustus is present, Sebastian can’t make him out. The stage lights cast a glow on the first few rows, but there’s no burnished gleam of gold to mark Severin out either. Surely they’d be in the front row, if they were here.

Sherlock stands and makes his way to the front of the stage. He calls the oboe, and that long tuning note rings out; the rest of the orchestra building under it, like they’ve done a hundred times before. Finding the perfect harmony that will make them one thing, instead of many; one single force. Before they’re even done Sebastian is out in the aisle; taking his place at the podium.

The audience applauds. Some of them might even know him; recognize him from some function or other of Augustus’s. Some might be mistaking him for Severin. Sebastian _feels_ like Severin; in a neat bespoke suit with his hair slicked back and his face schooled into cold, expressionless lines.

 _Is this the way Rin feels?_ He wonders, turning his back to the audience. The stage lights burn on the back of his neck and he can feel the prickle of eyes, all down the muscles of his shoulders to the bones of his wrists. Up in the back of the orchestra Jim’s head is lowered, his eyes on his piano keys. John is watching Sebastian, lip chewed up with worry in his teeth. The air is thick and somehow sharp, like there’s fine particles of sand in every breath Sebastian tastes.

 _Moondust,_ he thinks. The sand in Afghanistan. Jim still hasn’t looked up. Sebastian bows his head for a minute and allows himself to breathe, trying not to think about the audience behind him in the dark. One way or another.

 _Could I have walked away with Jim? Would I have? If John hadn’t come, if I had –_ It’s useless, now. Sebastian raises his hands.

_I: Moderato._

With a single sharp movement he calls them into sound. Strings, first. Sebastian doesn’t look at them. He conducts with his face to the ground, feeling the pins-and-needles heat of the audience trickling over his skin. It’s hot in his suit; the room might be cold, from the way his fingers feel numb on the baton, but it’s hot under Sebastian’s starched linens with the ache of Jim still worming its way out from his bones.

Dark, threatening sounds like storm clouds. _This is how we begin,_ Sebastian thinks. He holds both hands out to the strings and weaves his fingers through their sound, carding it like a lover’s hair. _This is how it begins._ Jim in the darkness of the lobby looking up at Sebastian with his wide mad eyes. Is he looking now? – No. Of course not.

The audience might as well be corpses in the seats behind Sebastian, silent and dead. They might not be there at all. Sherlock’s head raises, his chin resting delicately on the warm honey wood of his violin. His pale eyes blaze at Sebastian, something in them like hatred. Up in the back John’s hands on the drumsticks are _pianissimo,_ barely more than a whisper of sound.

So, Russia. So the world before the revolution. So the whisper of threat like a promise in the background. Sebastian eases them into the soft build of it, resting his hands palm down on the air like the soft lilting inclusion of the flautists is a physical thing. Like the sweet swell of the first violin is a pillow, Seb’s fingertips sunk deep into it. He gathers the brass out of the corner of his eye – building them up, for a heartbeat, before the violins dart into shrill sawing notes like the edge of fear. Then they’re thrumming again, all the strings, a single massive beast breathing asthmatic sorrow. Sebastian exhales, slow, holds one hand up still for them to focus on as the first violin rises and falls, waterfalls of sound. The orchestra trip – barely – over what might have been a traditional joyful melody, mistake it, fall again. There’s a familiar tune there, somewhere. Buried beneath the other sounds. Something that might have been a childhood song, something you knew once –

But it’s gone again. They fall into silence. Sebastian turns to John and gestures him down. He doesn’t see the expression on John’s face; doesn’t even see John’s blue eyes. All he sees is the hands on the drumsticks. No time for regrets now – no time for guilt – no time for anything, except the softest sounds and a single sharp violin over top them all like the piercing silver sweetness of sorrow. The oboe steps in quietly and the flutes follow, again, the sound growing and growing in an irresistible swell like a wave far off from shore, where there is nothing to let it break. Sebastian thinks of nothing. A great humming nothing. He is a vessel, into which the music pours like water. The brass hums something to the violins, a reminder – the tarnished sound of Christmas while the violins set their batons down. And then they’re picking up again – one after another, soldiers arming for war. Sebastian sees the violin bows raise – Sherlock’s last of all, as if he knows the exact moment necessary to put it to the strings.

Tension, now. And fear. And the piano – Sebastian holds out his hand and feels the ghost of Jim’s fingers taking it. The piano. The piano, and the drums. That spidery web of sound Shostakovich couldn’t possibly conceive of.

_Nothing but sound._

_If I could – but I would – so if I go back –_

_Nothing but the music, now –_

Oh, it goes on and on; softly and slow and ominous. It creeps around them. It peers in the window of the auditorium, growling under its breath. It pads on soft feet and trips over sweet hollows and looks sidelong out of the corners of its eyes. Sebastian breathes in and feels it on his tongue. Sorrow; oh, yes! Shostakovich knew this – he looked at Russia’s fields in summer and knew, and knew the blood that would stain them. _Do I know? Am I feeling the same thing? Watching a murder about to take place, in my head?_

For Shostakovich, at least, it is not a violent dying. Starvation comes with the whisper of a violin string, with the soft exhale of a flute. Starvation quavers around each note, delicate and so barely there as to not _be_ at all. The flute spins in circles in the air and the orchestra, stately, follows behind it –

And there, the jump of strings.

There the sudden and sharp fear of a deer bursting out of the bushes, heart-pounding and horrified. John leans on the drums for a single sharp moment –

But it’s Jim who has to signal the change in tempo. Jim who has to slam his fingers down on the low keys, hammering into the soft sound and cracking it open like a muscle shell to bare the soft vulnerable flesh within. And there he is – a heartbeat too early, taking everyone off guard, his teeth bared as he slams power-chords into the space of a whisper. Like gunshots into stillness. Like controlled explosives against the wall of a building, and Sebastian can see the brick-and-mortar of the sorrow fly outwards –

_On his terms, of course, but if I could would I_

Hard, now. Harder and darker. The reeds resting while the French horns call warning in clarion copper sound. Now the trumpets. There it is; the martial tone. There are the boots on the backs of their necks. There is fear more physical – there is the swift flight of the flutes like running. The violins are picking – no bows – their fingernails pulling sharp startled sounds from their instruments like eviscerated birds.

Faster, faster. Pushing it in. Sebastian surrenders himself to it with relief. Cellos sawing back and forth with their hair falling in their eyes and there, Jim, at the top of it all, his spine arched and his mouth just slightly open with a look like ecstasy on his face –

Sebastian pushes them higher and higher, drawing his hands up in the air, pulling them bodily after him. It doesn’t feel like a choice; it’s an eventuality. He can’t do less. The song won’t let him. _More. More. More._ Relentless and awful and terrified – Sebastian throws a hand down and _there,_ the crash of the symbol, and the percussion stomps heavily into the room. Beat after beat, driving forwards, quick and fast and aggressive. Had there been percussion at all before? If there had, it was nothing, compared to this. The drums shove past the other instruments, throwing them aside, and the sharp rattle and thunder-roll of them is gunfire into darkness.

The trumpets blaze. _Fear! Fire! Death! Flee – flee – flee –_

But there is nowhere to run, not from this. Sebastian draws them forward instead, opening his arms and welcoming the music in until it’s spent its rage and the last crash of the symbol rolls like a triumph over Seb’s body, knocking his head back. Oh, yes. Oh _yes –_

And without pause, the violins follow. No rest for the wicked. Sebastian feels them on his skin, and knows he is damp with his own sweat. They all are, now. Blaze after blaze of sound, rush after rush of gunfire like siege engines against the peaceful calm of the audience.

Sebastian lets them die almost to silence before the flute soloist start the second movement. Now the brass regrets; now it weeps, too, brash sounds reduced to nothing but a vague fluttering of fingers like a touch at a bruise they hadn’t meant to cause. Jim sinks back in his chair, swaying with the slow meandering path of the oboist. The orchestra seems to sink; drawing back down in its chairs, moving away from that awful, all-consuming sound.

But it’s building again. It’s coming back and they can’t escape it. There’s something like fear on their faces now when Sebastian raises his hands – teasing at the crescendo they all know will come. Here – soft movements – here stillness – here a beckoning –

And then the smack of the back of his hand against the air and they crash back in again, those awful, thundering drums. Quick-footed reeds trilling between them, fingers flying on the keys. Jim weaving his way in back and forth between the pert sounds and Sherlock’s bow sawing at the sharp movement back upwards.

Again. And again. No escaping it. Third – _Largo –_ they’ve come through second without pausing to breathe and Sebastian can’t believe it but he knows they must have. He’s drowning in the sound. He might have lost five minutes or ten or a hundred years – it doesn’t seem to matter. Here they are again. Soft and sweet. Knowing they’ll fall, eventually, trying anyways. The build of the sound now is ragged and exhausted, each instrument realizing individually with horror and inescapable knowledge that the fear must return.

Jim’s hair is plastered to his brow and John is breathing, open mouthed, as they move in to the parts they’ve written for themselves. Sebastian conducts the rest of the orchestra with one hand. With the other, he reaches out to them. Nothing more than that; the pleading curl of his fingertips like beckoning and maybe no one else will know what it means but John, of course, and Jim, inevitable and strange as the changing face of the moon. Sebastian begs them the only way that he can, staring at them, letting the room narrow down to the improvisations between them. They play back and forth, off each other, underneath the build of the third movement.

This, this is how it might have been. He might have held them each in one hand like chariot horses, balanced them in the bridle. When Sebastian breathes the air scalds his lungs. He might have – he might have –

He hadn’t, of course. He’d lost Jim, in the end. Nearly lost them both. _And how could you fix a storm to a chariot, anyways –_

The violins come in hard and John is steady but Jim is gone, chasing them down, the piano strident and triumphant above all other sound. _Please –_ Sebastian thinks, but the moment flies away and there is nothing except the heat of the stage lights and the urgent demand of Shostakovich on every fibre of his body.

Seb drops his hand into the brass and drags it back up. _More. More._

 _Let me show him,_ Sebastian thinks, fiercely, drawing his orchestra around him like armor, _If this is the last chance I get, let me show him what perfection is –_

If he means Augustus, or Jim, he doesn’t know.

There is no room for anything in him, anything at all.

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

And the hall erupts into light and sound.

Sebastian opens his eyes. He hadn’t realized they’d closed. The audience rises to their feet in a great rush like a wave. Sebastian feels himself tremble. The high of the symphony pours out of him like a rush and he takes a deep breath, feeling his heartbeat start to slow. The orchestra fills with a great rustling like a flock of birds as the violins put their bows down, lowering their instruments from their chins. After them the reeds and the brass follow, pushing aside clarinets and trumpets and staring around as if dazed. Jim takes his hands from the piano and folds them in his lap. He doesn’t look at Sebastian; his eyes are glued somewhere in the middle distance, out between the balconies. Sebastian’s eyes slide from him to John, drumsticks shoved in his belt like a holstered gun. He’s breathing hard, hair sweat-damp on his forehead.

Applause rings through the air. _This is it,_ Sebastian thinks. _This is the last moment I have them._ Jim a dark shadow at his piano and John a bright spark of golden light. He stares at them for one more moment, feeling the tremulous rush of change; as if it’s a stillness, a silence shoved in his heart. _Remember this,_ he thinks. _There will be long days and dark nights and you can’t escape the fact that this is going. But remember it was here._

_Remember that you might have had –_

Sebastian cuts off the thought and turns. He leads the orchestra in their bows and watches as the audience gathers up their coats and hats, pulling them off seats and filing in a great rush out the rows to the doors.

Then the stage lights go down and the heat disappears from the room all at once. Sebastian trembles again. It feels more like a shiver this time, less like the nerves in his body firing on adrenaline. He breathes out, tasting the change on the air like a turn in the weather. He should move. He should turn to the orchestra behind them. He can hear the click and snap of cases being opened, instruments being cleaned and disassembled and stored. Chairs squeak as they slide against the floor. _This is it. This is the end of it all._

Seb wants to stare at the empty chairs a moment longer; hold them there, in his mind, for one second more before he has to go. He wants to hold on to this heartbeat when, for the briefest spark of time, nothing is over yet.

Sebastian lowers his head. He shuts his eyes.

A warm hand wraps around his arm, grip tentative. Sebastian turns and John is there, grinning, high on the elation of completion. He hasn’t realized yet. He doesn’t know that this is the end and it is over, everything is over, there is no life after this –

“We did it,” John smiles. _Did what?_ Sebastian wonders. He has the strange and disconcerting feeling that they have done nothing but commit a murder.

Then John pulls Sebastian into a kiss, as the orchestra leaves for backstage, and Sebastian knows. He knows bone-deep and sudden like the slice of a guillotine through the back of his neck. _I can’t do this. I can’t ever do this._ He can’t stare at John and he can’t watch John in the mornings, slow and lazy in bed. John’s lips press against him, stubble scratching on Sebastian’s cheek, and Sebastian thinks –

_I can’t possibly go back to this._

He know what he wants like a sickness in his blood and it isn’t the bright mirror; it isn’t the reflection of himself as he might have been if he were a good man. He wants the darkness. He doesn’t want what he might be but he craves more of what he _is,_ violent and bloody and vivid like the turn of a thumbtack sending pain straight through his heart.

_I want Jim._

Sebastian pushes John away and John falls back a step, stumbling, incredulous dismay stark on his face. “What – “ He doesn’t finish the question. As soon as he sees the look in Seb’s eyes John knows, like Sebastian knows, exactly what has just taken place.

They stare at each other for a moment and then bitterness twists over John’s expression. “Go on, then,” he says. “If that’s what you want. Go.”

Maybe he’ll call the cops; maybe he won’t. Sebastian can’t find it in himself to care. “I’m sorry,” he says. He doesn’t mean it.

“Go,” John replies. Simply. The sound of a heart breaking.

So Sebastian does. He pushes through the orchestra, but the piano bench is already empty. Half of them are backstage – Molly’s face tearstained and betrayed, Sherlock looking white-lipped and grim.

“Where’s Jim?” Sebastian asks.

“Already gone,” Sherlock replies tersely. He jerks his chin in the direction of the door to the lobby. “You won’t catch him,” he adds, for Sebastian’s benefit.

“I don’t care,” Sebastian says. He doesn’t. He has to try. If nothing else, if nothing else –

He pushes through the stage doors to the lobby and out into the light, out into the champagne and pearl coloured world of the theatre patrons. The crowd seems to him nothing but a blur of black and dark, and he searches through it desperately. If only he can find Jim without anything else getting in the way –

But of course, he can’t.

“Sebastian.”

Severin appears out of nowhere like he’s been summoned. Sebastian grits his teeth, but he can’t even curse in his head. It’s fucking inevitable, after all – Rin showing up like this.

“What?” Sebastian asks, irritably. He tries to peer over Severin’s shoulders, but all he sees is a mass of dark suit jackets. Jim could be anywhere. He might already have left. “I’m looking for –“

“Could you make it? If you ran?”

Sebastian blinks and refocuses on Severin. “What?”

“If you left, right now, could you make it out of the EU?”

It doesn’t look like he’s joking. Sebastian frowns. “What are you talking about, Severin?” Seb hasn’t got time for this. He’s got to find Jim, before it’s too late. “Get out of my way.”

“Sebastian.” There’s a note of tension in Severin’s cool voice. “You need to leave –“ There’s someone over his left shoulder that might be Jim; slender, with black hair slicked back and a nervous twitch in his right leg.

Severin shifts, blocking Sebastian’s line of sight. Seb puts a hand on Rin’s shoulder, trying desperately to shove him away, but Severin won’t move. If it was Jim, he’s leaving. Slipping through the crowd to Madrid. Sebastian hasn’t fucking got _time –_

“Dammit, Rin, get out of my –“

“Thank you, Severin.”

The voice makes Sebastian stiffen and all of a sudden his hand is falling from Severin’s shoulder. It doesn’t matter. Severin’s already relaxing, the tension in his shoulders sliding away. It was just a delaying tactic, in the end. Sebastian turns, slowly, facing Augustus.

Augustus clasps his hands in front of him. “It’s time we spoke,” he says.

 _One way or another –_ Sebastian reminds himself.

At least they get him all way out of the theatre and around a corner before the black bag snugs down over his head.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor retcon - I changed the name of Sebastian's lover to Dean to avoid so many S names.  
> Unbetaed - if you pick something out let me know so I can fix it, thank youuuu.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me to the end and for all the wonderful support and art and everything that everyone has done!!! If you liked it, please leave me a comment, because comments are the fuel that keeps me going<3.

When his hands are securely tied behind his back the bag rips off Sebastian’s head and he blinks, trying to adjust his eyes to the light. It glares harshly in his eyes, a bare bulb swinging overhead. The ropes on his wrists are rough, plastic or jute, something durable enough to stay. Sebastian struggles against them anyways, making the hard fibres dig in to his skin. He’s tied to a bare-backed wooden chair, the slats of it digging into his back. His head stays down. He doesn’t bother trying to talk. There’s no point now.

Something animal and desperate strains in his chest, beating against the inside of his ribs. _Let me out let me out Jim might already be gone –_ The knots in the jute are tied securely. Sebastian snarls.

“You didn’t hurt him,” Augustus says, a frown in his voice. “Is he lucid?”

“Yes sir.” There isn’t a hint of bite-back in Severin’s reply. Sebastian tosses his head back, getting a few sweat-matted strands of hair out of his face, and the scene swims into place in front of him. They’re in the dirt basement of the Moran house, beneath the wine-cellar. Around them the solid stone walls of the mansion’s foundations creak and moulder, covered in spiderwebs. Augustus is seated in front of Sebastian, Severin at his shoulder. Severin’s face is quiet and cold, but his eyes stay focused on his shoes; refusing to look at Sebastian. The stone of the walls is black and slick with moisture, and the floor is spattered with indiscriminate splotches. Those stains could be blood. They could be anything.

Sebastian refuses to be afraid. He’ll be damned if Augustus gets the best of him. “Well,” he growls, “This is picturesque. Can I go?” Seb’s ribs are smarting and as he pulls his arms forwards again he can feel the sting of his own sweat over the raw skin of his wrists. Underneath his arms the wood of the chair is unforgiving against his muscles and his tendons don’t seem to want to relax away from warningly tense. He can feel the danger and fear of the basement on his skin like a mist, like there’s a reek of terror left in it from whatever happened down here before they got him.

Somehow Sebastian knows – without having to be told – that people have died down here, in the same position he’s in. Augustus leans forward in his Spartan metal chair, considering Sebastian. He balances his thick wrists on his wide-spread legs, grey eyes level and clear. “No.”

Simple enough. _I will not be afraid,_ Sebastian tells himself. Severin hovers nervously, pacing away from Augustus to stand by the wall. He’s breathing shallow and quick, his lips slightly parted. He might be in pain; Sebastian can’t tell, the cut of Severin’s suit concealing everything but the jerky way he moves. Then he’s walking around behind Sebastian’s chair, out of sight.

Sebastian feels Severin’s presence prickle on the back of his neck like the feather-light feet of an insect crawling over him, but he tries to ignore it. “Alright,” he says. Pauses for effect. “How about now?” Without acknowledging the insouciance Augustus looks over Sebastian’s head and nods once, tightly, at Severin. Sebastian hears the crunch of Severin’s footstep on the floor. “It’s just,” he continues, ignoring Rin’s rapid and frightened breathing, “I had something I wanted t –“

The blow to the back of the skull catches Sebastian mid-sentence and cuts him off, his head snapping down and to the side. His lip splits between his teeth, a metallic taste pluming like smoke in his mouth. Blood flecks off over the floor to join the other indeterminate stains and a brief flash of white pain like static explodes through Sebastian’s brain. He feels his heartbeat snap faster, an instant response, and jerks his head back into position.

“ _Fuck_ you,” he snarls at Augustus.

Augustus’s eyes don’t even flicker. “I suppose you know why you’re here.”

Sebastian laughs – Christ, he’s done so much at this point he doesn’t even know where to begin. “Was it the gay? Please, tell me it was the gay.” He spits the words at Augustus like curses, daring the Lord Moran to take the insult. “Your little faggot son fuck up again?” Behind him, Sebastian can hear Severin shifting, but Rin doesn’t speak. Maybe he doesn’t dare to speak.

_Could you make it? If you left –_

_The idiot,_ Sebastian thinks, with desperate fondness. _There’s no running from Da._

“I won’t rise to your taunts.” Augustus turns his hands over between his knees, sliding one elegant thumb over the creases of his palms like he’s feeling the pressure he can put on his own bones. “You know if I could prove you were involved with the killings we’d be having a very different conversation.”

So it’s Jim, after all. After everything. Sebastian almost laughs again, but at the last second something catches in his throat and he chokes instead, making a sound that’s halfway a sob. He hates himself for it instantly.

“So you _were_ involved.” Augustus’s eyes snap up and he fixes Sebastian with them, steely and implacable as the blade of a knife. “Moriarty, is that it?”

“Moriarty.” Sebastian tastes the name bitter on his tongue. “What the fuck do _you_ know about Moriarty?”

“More than you do.” Augustus’s lips tug downwards in something like disapproval and Sebastian suddenly feels thirteen again – like he’s failed to make a time in sprints or come home second in the class for maths. “You are so sure of your intelligence at outwitting me, Sebastian. So _adamant_ that I am ignorant to what you have been doing.”

If he was a little bit calmer Sebastian might get the hint then, but he doesn’t. “So – what? Going to blackmail me again?”

“Would it work?”

They stare at each other and Sebastian feels the stringy, rubbery strands of Augustus’s control woven tight around him like a foul web. They are white and stinking and slightly sticky, he thinks, those bonds, still warm from the spider’s spinnerets.

“What do you want?” he asks, finally.

“I want what I’ve always wanted,” Augustus responds. “You to take your place as my son.” Severin shifts at that – like he’s controlling a flinch. Sebastian hears the crisp sound of Severin’s suit as he turns aside, then footsteps crunch back off across the floor.

Sebastian only half pays attention. “Your son!” He gasps the words, amused and bewildered, staring at Augustus. “A _Moran._ They’re _orchestras,_ Dad! What the fuck kind of orchestra is worth – this? Worth _Mom!?”_

Seb’s never brought it up before, but somehow, Augustus is expecting it. He doesn’t so much as pause in the steady movement of his hands. “I didn’t kill your mother, Sebastian. You know that.” There isn’t anything as human as guilt or regret in his voice.

Sebastian feels hot desperate fury reach up and curl around his throat, choking him. “She sure as fuck didn’t fall down the stairs of her own free will!” _How dare he – how dare he not care, at all – how dare he sit there like she was nothing –_

Augustus frowns, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “I am not a murderer.”

Sebastian almost laughs. Augustus sounds like he believes it; the gospel of innocence. Seb isn’t sure whether he should be impressed or offended. It all rolls off Augustus like water; the killing. The abuse. “And this?” Sebastian asks, bitterly. He jerks his shoulders, making the chair he’s tied to scrape against the floor. “This is so much better, is it? Kidnapping?”

For the first time, Augustus’s lips start to curve in a smile. It’s faint, and then it’s gone; a cruel and condescending expression. “Kidnapping is a crime committed against a person. You’re not a person, Sebastian. You’re property.” While Sebastian is still reeling from that, stunned, Augustus continues. “This was your choice, after all.”

Oh, yes.

Yes, it was.

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

_I walked into the army recruitment office,_ he told Jim, when Jim asked. And yes, it started that way – The doors opened automatically and Sebastian stepped through, chin high, daring anyone to comment. Behind the desk the little brunette with the sweet freckles had sucked in a sharp breath, sending a glance sideways to the man on her right. Big man; strong nose, curly black hair cropped close to his skull and a dimple in the centre of his jaw.

Sebastian had to turn his head to the side to squint at them out of his good eye. “You recruiting?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the girl behind the desk. “But are you –“

“I’m Sebastian Moran. M-O-R-A-N. Sign me up.”

“Listen.” They’re both in uniform, Sebastian realizes; it sits well on the big man. Above the dress blacks his dark skin is wrinkled and cracked like dry rock and there is a slight frown starting between his eyebrows. “It’s nice to meet you Sebastian, but –“

“M,” Sebastian said, again, his voice tight with the fear of going home. “O.”

The soldier sighed, knowing a lost cause when he heard one. “It’s nice to meet you, Sebastian. I’m Dean.”

They must have thought he’d fail, shooting lefty. But Morans don’t _fail,_ and Sebastian had outshot the rest of the candidates easily.

And there had been Dean, grinning with delight at Sebastian’s skill.

Dean.

Dean was twenty-three and Sebastian thought he was an adult – broad-shouldered, brown-skinned, with scarred hands like the leather soles of shoes. He used to curse a blue streak at the recruits and fight their battles for them behind their backs, and.

And. And he loved Sebastian. He loved Sebastian from the moment Seb walked in the door, cloudless and huge as the sky at the end of summer. They never talked about it, but both of them knew; both of them felt it arching up above their heads. Might as well talk about the moon – might as well remark on the existence of the sun. They loved each other with the reckless abandon of those who had never loved before.

Sebastian remembers the foul-smelling Kurdish cigars Dean used to smoke, in their camp cot, both of them colourless under the naptha lights. Sebastian’s pale skin sprawled out over the canvas, a vast expanse for Dean’s hands to limn in light. He remembers the steady press of Dean’s palms on the taut skin over his hipbones. He remembers Dean pressing on the flat plane of Sebastian’s stomach, holding him steady as the stars moved above them. Their tent at CHU was four breathlessly-hot canvas walls, and it was an entire world above the moondust sand of the desert. Sebastian would lay his white head on the black hair of Dean’s chest and listen to Dean’s deep, deep heart, like the beat of a drum, and the world would turn.

And they would be together.

But of course, it was good. And that meant Augustus had to stop it.

Augustus dragged Sebastian home and Dean, protective fierce Dean with his bloody curses and his boundless hot heart, he came after them. He dishonorabled himself out of the military to get an early discharge date, guessing what Augustus was going to do.

And he might have saved Sebastian; only Augustus was counting on the leverage.

Dean caught up to them at the Moran manor. Sebastian ran outside, his feet beating down the stone steps, Severin close and terrified on his heels.

“You can’t be here.”

“He can’t do this to you, Seb – “

And then Augustus came down the stairs behind them, carrying the gun. At first Sebastian didn’t understand what he intended. Seb shoved Dean behind him, snarling at Augustus. “You won’t hurt him.”

“No? But you will.” And then Augustus offered the gun to Sebastian. Seb stared at it, uncomprehending. “If you want to go free, Sebastian, if this… man… is what you want, it’s easy.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Dean hissed, tugging at Sebastian’s sleeve. But Sebastian was frozen.

“Shoot Severin and you can leave. I’ll have no sons. How would that be? You take your lover and go, and all you have to do is pull the trigger.”

Severin’s startled intake of breath. He must have been terrified. Must have thought Sebastian would do it, in the end.

“Or you stay. You kill your lover, and stay, and you _choose_ to obey me. Do you understand? It’s your choice. So choose.”

Sebastian’s feet were planted in the fresh-mowed, soaking-wet grass of the mansion with Dean behind him. He was so fresh out of the desert that he didn’t recognize the smell of rain, but he could taste it anyways – the wetness and life of every drop of dew. _So choose._ Light gleamed on the barrel, stroking down towards the end of the gun. Dean behind him was saying something, unimportant, something that Sebastian could never remember afterwards even when he hated himself for forgetting. Severin’s hair was in his eyes and it made him look younger, like the child he once had been.

And it was Sebastian’s fault, after all. The dogs. Helena. Augustus’s focus on Severin was only ever a result of Sebastian’s intractability.

So Sebastian had chosen.

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

“My choice,” Sebastian says, bitterly. “I never really had a _choice._ ”

“I’m glad you appreciate that.” Augustus leans back in his chair. The smile’s gone, now, but he still somehow manages to look smug. Sebastian wants to hit him, badly. “I am not the monster you think I am, Sebastian. We have all had to make sacrifices for this family.”

“For orchestras,” Sebastian mumbles again, with a dull and weary disbelief. After all this – after everything – and it’s just the fucking family name.

“That is the second time you’ve said that,” Augustus interrupts Sebastian’s thoughts. His eyes flick up to Severin and something passes between them, over Sebastian’s head. Augustus’s expression is alien. Something flickers in his grey eyes that Sebastian can’t seem to wrap his head around, then Augustus looks down at his hands, folding them in his lap. “If you think this was ever about orchestras, Sebastian, you are deeply mistaken.” Augustus’s hands are soft, wrinkled like he’s been in the water too long. Sebastian can just make out the faint trace of old callouses on Augustus’s thumbs, where he might once have placed his fingers against strings. Augustus stretches his fingers out, knobby knuckles and slender bones. His face is blank. “It’s time you knew,” he says; to his hands more than Sebastian. Sebastian stares at him, uncomprehending.

If he’s thinking anything, Sebastian doesn’t know what it is.

Augustus looks up. “When you inherited the Moran house,” he says, calmly, “And you might have – you would have been taking on more than the musical side of our business.” Augustus’s eyes glimmer faintly in the ominous light, stark shadows cast on his face by the single swinging bulb above them. He is a sharp slash of silver in the brown and dun world of the basement, like the barrel of a gun. “The training that you received for conducting was only ever a part of a much larger puzzle. Your brief stint in the military – the martial arts, even your proficiency for a sort of… animalistic cunning… it was all intentionally fostered in you.”

Words are coming out of Augustus’s mouth, cool and steady, but they’re not making much sense. Sebastian frowns, still in the ropes, not even trying to struggle. “What are you saying?”

“Everything I’ve done has been to shape you for your real calling – the calling that Severin has already begun to learn.”

Behind Sebastian, Severin shifts again; clothing whispering to itself. Sebastian feels an ache in his forehead as his eyebrows knit closer together. “What?” he asks. He can feel the shape of something in the room with them, but he can’t tell what it is. There’s an answer here – somewhere just out of reach – something momentous.

“Moriarty wants you for his own upstart business. Did you wonder why? What he wanted in you? Did you think it was personal?”

Sebastian forgets whatever it is Augustus is driving at, thinks of the dark and heady fascination in Jim’s eyes. “If it wasn’t – “

“We control, Sebastian.” Augustus spreads his fingers again, like a cat stretching, like he’s holding strands between his fingers that he intends to weave. “That is what it means to be a Moran. Perfect control. Of a symphony – of your self – and of others.”

 _I’ve heard it all before,_ Sebastian wants to say, but Augustus doesn’t pause for breath.

“The Moran family is an institution in the undergrounds of Britain. It has been since the British took our family holdings at Kildare.” Augustus raises his chin like a hoary king on an ancient throne, and the shape of his secret starts to coalesce. Sebastian is reminded – sudden and awful – of the darkness that brewed around Jim’s shoulders.

“Moriarty never wanted you. He wanted the heir to the Moran criminal empire.”

 _No._ The word rings in Sebastian’s head like a bell. _No._ “That’s not possible,” he hears himself say, sounding like he’s taken a punch to the throat.

Augustus’s head inclines a fraction towards him. “Isn’t it?” Those deadly grey eyes stay locked on Sebastian, and Sebastian can see in them –

There’s a hundred things that give it away. He sees the approval in Augustus’s eyes as it all snaps into place, and there it is. Like he’s known all along. Maybe he had; after all, the boardroom had felt familiar. Jim’s side –

Augustus’s.

Sebastian hears the dim echo of Augustus’s voice over his head as a child, _two of them means competition, you know that,_ as a boardroom full of suspicious strangers looked at the twins. _Competition will make them both work harder._ Like they were thoroughbred horses. _They will kill each other to get a head. And you’ll have the heir you want, in the end. Isn’t that enough?_

A brown-haired man nodding, looking at Sebastian like he was chattel the board was considering purchasing. Augustus’s sons. “You monster,” Sebastian whispers. “You complete fucking monster.”

He made them like this. Sebastian and Severin; killers, weapons, conductors in a great symphony of lives. _The Moran Empire._ The Moran criminal empire. Of course; it always had to be that. Sebastian’s throat is dry and he can’t seem to swallow. _How much of me – how many of the things that I’ve stayed up late hating myself for – which parts of me were born, and which were made –_

He’ll never know. Augustus is speaking again. “But you were a failed experiment, I’m afraid,” he says. For the first time, there’s real regret in his voice. _An investment wasted?_ “You were no heir at all. Severin. Kill him.”

Sebastian’s brain drains down through his throat to form a solid mass in his stomach. “No.” When Severin steps forward his face is blank, and his hands are clenched tight to stop them from trembling. “Rin,” Sebastian whispers. “You can’t.”

Part of him believes that – stupid and useless as it is, part of him truly believes that Severin can’t make this final last step. Can’t go through with the ultimate betrayal. Sebastian tries the ropes again – more out of habit than anything – throwing himself forward against them. Maybe something gives. It feels, for a second, like the pressure eases –

But they hold. Severin flinches.

“Rin,” Sebastian says again, sucking in a desperate breath. He’s not sure if he means to beg. He thinks maybe he does. He can see it in Severin’s blue eyes; this will kill them both _and if that’s what Augustus wants_ but Sebastian won’t sacrifice Severin, not to this stupid family, not to their father’s pride –

And that is when the door opens and shuts.

It stops even Augustus. He turns in his chair to stare, Severin twisting at the waist in the same moment. Sebastian watches in profile as Severin’s eyes go wide and his face pales. It happens all at once; all before Sebastian’s eyes slide past Severin’s chest and find the slender figure at the door. _Who else,_ Sebastian thinks, helpless, unable to stop himself going rigid, _could it possibly be? After all –_

_And who could be worse – who could I not stand to lose down here in the dark –_

Jim doesn’t condescend to notice Sebastian. He doesn’t even look at the chair where Sebastian is bound. The latch of the door clicks snug in the lock and Jim leans back on it, resting his shoulders against the smooth wood. Both of his hands stay behind his back, on the knob. Jim’s posture is loose and easy, although his face is pared down to the barest sliver of an expression. He looks like a badly cast doll, everything drained from his face, his manic energy gone suddenly still.

Sebastian forgets to breathe. His hands go loose under his bindings, the rope easing on his torn wrists. _Who else could it have been?_ And the room is still.

“You,” Augustus says, without even a hint of surprise.

Jim inclines his head. “Me.” They stare at each other, two leviathan sizing each other up in a space that seems infinitely too small. There isn’t any darkness around Jim now; it’s obvious that he’s the smaller between the two of them, even though Augustus is seated. Jim’s suit can’t conceal the boniness of his shoulders, the fragile curve of his waist. Sebastian’s breath is ragged, tearing at the corners of his mouth. _Get out, Jim. Get out –_

He knows he’s going to die down here; the thought has already settled in his head. But for Jim to go with him –

“Jim – “

“I suppose you think you’re clever, finding your way in here.” Augustus says over Sebastian. He’s struggling to keep his voice level, but it comes out tight anyways. He’s furious, in his own way. Whatever he’d planned for, it wasn’t this.

Jim’s head tilts to the side, birdlike, his eyes lost in deep hollows of shadow. “Clever?” His expression is inscrutable. “You _knew_ I would come.”

“I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come alone.”

Without comment, Jim’s eyes slide to Sebastian. It makes Sebastian want to die, a little. There isn’t anything as mundane as trust in Jim’s eyes; just the feverish light of possession, somewhere far back beneath the expressionless mask. _I own you. You are with me._

 _I don’t deserve this,_ Sebastian thinks. Out loud – somehow – he manages, “Jim, get _out_ ,” whispering past a lump in his throat.

_Why the hell did you come back at all?_

“Don’t be stupid.” For a moment it’s unclear who Augustus is speaking to, but he’s still staring at Jim. There’s something crackling on the air about him now. Sebastian sees Augustus’s eyes narrow, just a sliver, and then every line in Severin’s body goes tight.

Sebastian can smell the change in the air; the snap of a fight about to happen. It’s unbearable – even the thought sparks on Sebastian’s skin like electricity. He pulls against the rope again and something, impossibly, gives. Some weak thread snapping against the tension of his wrists. It’s nearly silent, and nobody else in the room seems to notice; not even Severin, directly in front of Sebastian with his hands curled into threatening fists. There’s nothing more than a small pop from the jute and then the ropes are loosening, enough that Sebastian can squeeze his thumb tight to his palm and start to work his hand free. _It might be enough –_

“Sebastian can’t help you,” Augustus says. Sebastian says nothing, working furiously, trying to keep the strain out of his shoulders so it’s invisible from the front.

“But he’s here,” Jim replies simply. He’s watching Sebastian, still. There’s a whole world in his eyes, apologies and explanations and something else besides. It makes Sebastian want to stop working, but he doesn’t dare. _Will you let me ask? After._ Sebastian wonders if Jim would have told him everything. He pulls harder against the ropes, feels an acrid sting as his skin scrapes off.

“You must have known I would kill you for coming,” Augustus says.

“You’d kill _him_ if I didn’t.” Jim shrugs. He finally releases the doorknob and steps forward, hands loose at his sides. No knife in them; if it comes to a fight, Jim’s outmatched anyways. Everyone knows it. _Do you know why he wanted you…_ He might take Severin, but he’d never do it uninjured, and he’d never fight his way free afterwards. “I had to come,” Jim says, and his eyes finally release Sebastian; lashes sliding down to cover them before he looks to Augustus. “You understand. It’s a terrible waste.”

Sebastian’s mouth tastes foul. _I’m not worth this._

“I will see him dead before I see him work for you,” Augustus rumbles, like thunder under his breath.

“Of course you will.” Again, one of Jim’s slender shoulders rises and falls. “I had to come,” he repeats. It’s suicide and they all know it. There’s hardly a beat before it happens. Sebastian doesn’t have time to do anything. He sucks in a sharp breath over his teeth and puts his chest into working the ropes, straining forwards, feeling them tear over his skin inch by agonizing inch.

“Severin,” Augustus commands, inflectionless.

This time there isn’t a hesitation in Severin. He turns to Jim like he was never expecting anything less, satisfaction clear and ugly on his face. Jim was only ever a monster to Severin, after all. Rin’s hands raise. Sebastian sees a shudder go through Jim like surrender, and understands what it must have been like to watch Robespierre mount the scaffold. His chin lifts. Fanatical light flares in his dark eyes and the shadows on his face curl possessively over his jaw, stretching fingers around his throat.

“No!”

Severin steps forward. Jim’s eyes blaze, undaunted and brilliant. He knows he’s going to die. It’s beneath him still, somehow. Severin will rip Jim’s still-beating heart from his chest, but he’ll never manage to touch Jim all the same. Unlike Jim, Severin is armed; he draws a knife from a concealed holster, and it gleams in his hand.

“ _Jim!”_

Rin’s grip on the knife is loose and professional, his movements languid and unhurried. He knows what the end of this is; there’s no way Jim can stand against him, even with that viper-quick speed. There’s a catch in the ropes – some knot that’s still holding – and Sebastian weighs his options in a little less time than it takes Jim to blink.

Once. Jim’s bright eyes go dark behind his lashes and Sebastian wrenches the last inch free of the ropes. He cries out as it dislocates something in his hand, a sharp animal roar that fills the small space beneath the basement’s ceiling.

He doesn’t think twice. He smashes into Severin with enough force that Rin overbalances and stumbles sideways, banging into the wall. Seb hears a startled exclamation – it might be Jim or Augustus, but he has no way of knowing. He reaches for the knife. Severin, expecting that, jerks it upwards out of reach. Rin only has room for one blow before he knows Sebastian will disarm him, so he makes it count.

He goes for the face, slashing downwards with the momentum of keeping the blade away from Sebastian. The last thing Sebastian sees before he feels the blade bite into the skin of his face is the curve of Severin’s movement, elegant and mathematically perfect.

The knife skitters upwards through Seb’s cheek to his brow, barely missing his eyeball. It would blind him, only, it catches on the bone – skips and stutters and slips upwards, slashing clean between his lashes. Sebastian screams. He feels shock hit him like a white wave crashing over his head but there isn’t time to consider it; isn’t even time to really acknowledge the pain that slaps adrenaline into his system. Blood stings in his iris. Something pops in his injured thumb.

No time for that, not locked in close like this. Sebastian catches Rin’s wrist, knocks it aside, and slams his forehead forward into Rin’s face. Severin’s nose crunches sickeningly. His hot breath exhales against Sebastian’s cheek, and he pivots – turning both their weight, pulling Sebastian along by Seb’s grip on his wrist. Rin’s face is spattered with Sebastian’s blood. Sebastian can’t let go in time, so he doesn’t bother. He twists his arm as he’s yanked forward, putting painful pressure on Severin’s hand until it opens and the knife falls to the floor, spattering blood down with it as it goes. Sebastian kicks at it, wildly, hears it clatter off away from them. Then Severin’s elbow slams into his stomach and Sebastian gasps, breath punched out of him, and it’s a fistfight; on the backhand Severin catches Sebastian across his face, slapping him so hard Seb’s ears start to ring.

They’re so close there’s no momentum, or too much momentum, their bodies moving in perfect synch like this is a choreographed dance. Sebastian knows each punch Severin will throw; each smooth and clockwork motion of Severin’s body, mirrored tight against his. Severin’s foot darts forward for Sebastian’s knee and he’s forced to sidestep, twisting, and Severin is there following him like a four-step pattern in a box. Sebastian’s hand on Rin’s wrist locks them close together, unable to move apart.

Evenly matched. _Perfectly_ matched. There’s a synergy to it that hums on Sebastian’s brain, each deadly motion echoed and anticipated between them. They might as well be one person, moving with two bodies.

Severin still hasn’t made a sound except his ragged breathing but Sebastian can see his face, contorted into a grimace. He’s drained himself of everything except a cold, implacable rage. Maybe that makes this easier. Sebastian missteps and Severin catches him under the chin, a glancing blow without enough force to make it disabling.

“Kill him!” Augustus shouts, over the sound of Sebastian’s pained exhale.

And Jim whistles, a quick three chord progression that’s the beginning of the song he was playing in his apartment. _People won’t be people –_

Sebastian gasps for breath. They never were people, him and Severin. He sees the knowledge flicker in Severin’s eyes. There will never be an end to what they are. Augustus will use them both, drain them dry and leave them nothing more than husks. Sebastian sees it there, clear against the blue; the exact moment when Severin stops trying to win.

He catches Sebastian under the chin but instead of the killing blow Rin gives Sebastian an opening. There’s no way it’s not intentional; Sebastian can see it in Rin’s eyes. Surrender. Absolution. Seb steps close again, following the box-step pattern back in close. Sebastian’s hand wraps around the back of his neck, and for a heartbeat they’re there, chest to chest, breathing into each other’s mouths. Sebastian is panting with the quick and dirty exertion of their fight, and Severin is breathless.

Seb thinks he sees Rin nod. Maybe he imagines it. Maybe it’s nothing more than a tremor, as Severin realizes the position he’s in. But as he gets his grip and snaps Severin’s neck, Sebastian thinks he sees Severin shut his eyes; like he is giving himself over to a long, well-earned rest. His lashes are soft and blameless on his cheekbones.

He looks, once again, like a child.

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

Rin’s body slumps to the ground, empty of whatever force had been animating it. Sebastian lets it slide through his fingers, feeling the brush of Severin’s hand against his thigh like the last lash of a whip. He doesn’t have time to think about it. Just another thing on that list; another moment to come back to, when it’s all said and done. Somewhere there’s a bottle of whisky already racking up regrets. Sebastian turns to Augustus and Jim, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his wrist, and waits for his breathing to slow.

There they are, the two of them. Sebastian’s been thinking in twins for most of his life – seeing things with two faces, just like him and Severin. Sherlock and Jim. Himself. John. All pairs, echoing each other like funhouse mirrors or interlocking shards of reflective crystal. Now Sebastian stands alone and considers the last of them.

Jim and Augustus. Seb feels sick. He can feel the loss of Severin pouring into him now, cool water sliding through his veins instead of blood. He wishes he had the strength to kill himself, but he knows that he doesn’t. Not with Jim, standing there, still alive and vivid after everything.

Augustus still hasn’t stood; it would be a mark of weakness, after everything that’s happened. “I suppose I’m next,” he says, coolly.

“Yes,” Jim replies, without waiting for Sebastian’s answer. “You are.”

“Satisfy my curiosity. Tell me how you managed it.”

Salt stings in Sebastian’s eyes, again, and he has to wipe the cut with the back of his sleeve. His once-crisp shirt comes away red. He stares at his cuff-links. An hour ago he’d been conducting a concert. It seems incomprehensible; like another world entirely.

As Sebastian’s hand drops he sees Jim’s fingers twitch under the sleeve of his suit jacket, playing an invisible piano on one side. “I don’t know,” Jim says. Seb looks up to his face and catches him frowning, as if it wasn’t what he meant to say. Then he shakes his head, throwing off the surprise, and turns back to Augustus. “I really don’t. You did do an excellent job.”

“Thank you.”

Jim grins, mood changing mercurially, and sketches a mock bow. “Nothing less from a Moran – “

“Don’t mock me, _boy,_ ” Augustus thunders back.

And Jim is instantly serious again, although that jeering amusement simmers under his words. “Of course not. I mean it. They’re a fantastic piece of work, the two of them.”

Sebastian considers speaking, discards the idea as useless, and starts straightening his shirt and pants. It feels odd and mechanical to still be moving; like there’s a part of him that’s lying still on the floor and he can’t quite manage the same speed without it. The world is a step away; separated from him by a thin mesh screen. _Severin is dead._

_Don’t think about it._

_Severin is dead._

Sebastian licks his lips, and tastes blood.

“So how were _you_ going to do it?” Jim asks, from the other side of a vast abyss, “Have your prodigal son here kill the spare?”

“Nothing so crude. They were made as balance.” Balance.

 _Sebastian and Severin –_ Seb straightens. He doesn’t look behind him at the body on the floor. He doesn’t need to. He can feel every contour of Severin’s body seeping over the back of his neck, until he has to rub at the itch. The drying blood on his palm flakes against his skin. _Severin is dead._

“We could never balance each other,” Sebastian says bitterly. _Just look at what happened when we tried –_

Jim glances at Sebastian underneath his lashes, his face serious. “Of course, that’s why you needed a heart. _He_ would have never given up.” It should feel like an insult, but Sebastian’s too surprised. He blinks, and Jim gives him a wan smile.

“But – “ Sebastian turns to Augustus, and Augustus raises his eyebrows.

“You think I was blind enough to believe Severin was unfeeling?”

And at that a cold, dead rage settles over Sebastian. “You bastard,” he whispers. Because oh, of course. Of course Augustus kept Rin like that, for years, uselessly pretending to be an automaton even though Augustus knew every step it was a lie. Sebastian’s hands curl into fists, tightening around his blood. Rin’s blood. The blood they used to share. The numbness is fading, replaced by a hot and violent rage.

“See,” Jim interjects, “It’s that. That’s what I don’t get. He would have hated you and – oh. _Oh.”_ His eyes go round and wide. “Oh that _is,_ isn’t it?”

Augustus’s mouth sets flinty and Sebastian has to fight an instinctive flinch. It only makes him more furious; he can feel the fire stoking up inside of him, eating everything in his chest until there’s nothing left but flames. _I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him._

“I’m glad you appreciate it,” Augustus says, his voice stilted.

“Appreciate what?” Sebastian growls, barely managing to restrain himself from shouting.

Jim is staring at Augustus and his eyes are gleaming in open admiration. Seb wants to hit him for it. “Severin would have guided him.”

“Flawlessly loyal,” Augustus agrees.

“And he would have been – oh, yes. Yes, I can see it. If you never told him of your involvement, he would have lived and died and passed the empire on, never _ever_ knowing it was your gift to him.” Jim’s eyes flick to Sebastian. “Have you got it, yet? Why he never told you? Why he acted so _appalled_ by your violent propensities? _Why hasn’t he called the guards, Sebastian?”_

Sebastian stares at Augustus, and dust clicks off the gears in his head. There’s got to be something more in his head than anger, if he could just find it –

“Come on,” Jim whispers. “What did he bring you down here to do?”

Augustus stares up at Sebastian, and his face is flawlessly blank. And somehow, Sebastian knows. It’s like him. It’s perfectly like him. Using Sebastian’s own weaknesses against him, even to the last. Augustus raised them; he knows them. Knows Sebastian’s rage, his rebellion, and his bone-deep sickening hatred.

_Did you think I was so blind…_

“I’m supposed to kill him,” Sebastian says, slowly, sick and trembling with hatred. “I’m supposed to inherit the Moran house. It’s what he wants.” Augustus’s chin inclines, just a hair, and a repulsive knife goes through Sebastian’s gut. It would always be according to his plan. Even the worst vengeance Sebastian could wreck on Augustus’s body, and Augustus would still, _still_ have won –

 _I’m going to be what he made me_ –

“But he wasn’t counting on one thing,” Jim purrs with a smile. He saunters over and rests his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. The heat of his touch is like lightning, connecting Sebastian back to the ground. Seb knows it’s on purpose; Jim is grounding him. He looks down at Jim, and finds Jim beaming at him. Jim’s eyes are kind; there are wrinkles, around the corners, from smiles. Sebastian smiles back, unable to help himself.

“And what is that?” Augustus asked, frustration obvious in his voice.

“Me,” Jim says, simply. He bends over with the graceful curve of a ballet dancer and picks up Severin’s discarded knife. It glimmers and blurs into a whirl in his fingers as he spins it neatly one-handed. “Because he _won’t_ inherit, Augustus. He won’t rule, he won’t control. That’s _mine._ And so is he. I want you to remember that, while you’re dying. Your glorious, perfect son is never going to be anything more than my dog.” Jim turns from Sebastian, and steps forward to loom over Augustus. Seated, Augustus is forced to look up at him. Jim smiles. “Maybe I’ll set him to sniping or picking up my laundry. Maybe he’ll type up my letters. But I’m going to break him, and I’m going to drag him through the gravel, and I’m going to make absolutely _certain_ that every thing you ever trained him to be is _wasted.”_

“You wouldn’t dare,” Augustus snaps back, and Sebastian can see the flare of wounded pride in his eyes. “He is a _Moran._ He could run your small time operation – “

“But he never will.” Jim laughs in Augustus’s face. “He’s going to be my lacky, _Dad._ And he’s going to _beg_ me for the privilege.”

Augustus surges upwards, snarling, and Jim plants the blade in his heart.

It all seems like it’s over so quickly; one minute Da’s there, larger than life, and the next minute there’s nothing but a broken old body slumping backwards in his chair. The air goes out of the room like it’s shot up ten thousand feet above sea level, all the pressure slipping away and subsiding until Sebastian can breathe again without choking. Like there used to be a hundred beating hearts packed into these walls with them, and now there is none.

Or two, maybe.

Jim draws the blade from Augustus’s chest with a wet sucking sound like a boot in muck and turns to Sebastian. Moran blood drips from his blade, spills over Augustus’s chest to the floor. With his shirt wet and plastered red to his chest, Augustus’s fat is revealed; the slight paunch at his waist he’d put on since his days as a young man. In death his face is white and soggy, loose skin pulling away from his eyes and jowls under his beard. Just a man.

“Did you mean it?” Sebastian asks Jim after a moment, his mouth dry.

Jim flicks the blade irritably, spattering blood on Sebastian’s shoes. “Yes.” He glares at Sebastian. “No.” His voice is terse, bouncing up and down on his heels with the sheer energy of his frustration. “I’m not _keeping_ what he made you, Sebastian. I don’t want you to _rule_ out of self-loathing and hatred, it’s _pathetic._ You’ll play Linken Park albums and sulk. I can’t be bothered.” The blade snaps closed and Moriarty shoves it impatiently in his suit pocket. “You know I was halfway to the airport. I was going to blow up the house from Heathrow with the whole sorry lot of you in it. I missed my _flight_ for this.”

“Not worth it?” Sebastian asks, amused, just to see Jim snap another glare in his direction.

“No, you _aren’t.”_ Jim stalks back across the floor towards Sebastian. “But you _are_ going to be making it up to me. For the rest of your life.”

Sebastian watches him come on, watches the liquid way Jim’s hips move with the sway of his walk, and smiles. “As your dog.”

_And wouldn’t it be something, to glory in that, to be shamelessly and violently possessed –_

“And no one is _ever_ touching you again.”

It sits for a minute between them. Then Sebastian says, conversationally, “So you were jealous.”

Jim’s head snaps up. His eyes – those glittering, malevolent, omnipotent eyes – narrow in fury.

And Seb grins, leaning back against the cool wall of the basement with his arms folded over his chest. “You were _jealous_. Watching me with John was pissing you off so much you almost threw out your whole evil plan just to –”

“Sebastian, I swear, if you don’t shut your _bloody_ –“

“You’re so sweet, Jim. Were you pining?”

“ _Very_ stupid, Moran,” Jim snarls. He reaches up to fist a hand in Sebastian’s hair and Sebastian laughs, breathlessly, letting Jim haul him down into a furious kiss.

_♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_ _♫_

**One Year Later –**

Sebastian pulls the bolt and pushes it forward again, smoke wreathing the muzzle of the gun.

“Are we _done?_ ” Jim asks, bored. He’s wearing Gucci sunglasses today with his light-brown suit, white shirt, blue tie, very tourist casual. He’s looking murderous and sleek in the golden sun, the rooftop pool nearly the same shade as his sapphire cufflinks. The casing’s landed by his foot and he kicks it petulantly away, skittering under the railing and thirteen stories down.

Sebastian grins. He doesn’t bother to safe the gun before sets it down, leaning against the railing. If it gets hot enough to cook off Seb’ll lose an ear, but whatever. The look of surprise on Jim’s face’d be worth it.

“You’re the one who wanted him killed _onto_ his mistress.”

“ _I_ wanted a martini about three hours ago, thank you very much.”

“I’m sorry. I’d offer to refund your money for the job but I’m really, really not going to do that.”

Jim scowls. “Safe your fucking weapon, Moran.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes, because it’s a cheap way to end the argument – reminding Sebastian what he was before Jim found him. Ah, well. That’s Jim for you. Sebastian starts packing up, whistling tunelessly as he does. After about ten seconds of tolerance, Jim smacks him up the back of the head – about two seconds slower than he usually would.

So he’s in a good mood, today.

They go down the stairs and into the hotel, where the every-day patrons have no idea what’s moving in their midst. Some of them glance askance at Sebastian, and he rubs his hand over his face.

“God’s sake,” Jim snaps, impatient, “ _Yes,_ the scars are _incredibly_ tragic, you’re a _martyr,_ how do you _manage._ ”

Sebastian laughs out loud. As they go by the hotel bar he can see his reflection wave in the warped mirror. The scar moves with him like a stripe on a tiger-shark, a pink keloid line that scrapes down Sebastian’s brow over his cheek, nearly to his jaw. His eye was saved by a skitter of Severin’s blade, the barest uncertainty. _If you’d have been blind, I would have left you there,_ Jim says, but Sebastian doesn’t believe it.

In the street outside the hotel there’s a poster: old and yellowed, for the London Philharmonic playing a concert in Munich. Their infamous rearrangement of Shostakovich’s Symphony no. 5. It’s too far faded for Sebastian to pick out faces but Sherlock’ll be in there, somewhere, and Molly, and John with his wheat-gold hair and easy smile. Sebastian wonders who’s conducting them. If John ever found something to suit him; something dark enough to make him breathe faster, but not dark enough to scare him.

“If you’re thinking about it, don’t,” Jim warns. The car’s waiting for them – not a Maybach, anymore, but a 2003 Phantom that Jim reckons makes him look like a Bond villain.

 _Bond villains drive Ferraris, these days,_ Sebastian told him, when the Phantom rolled in the drive.

Jim was unimpressed. _Just because you feel the need to overcompensate at 200 miles per hour, Sebastian…_

They get in the car and it pulls away from the curb without needing a signal. Sebastian relaxes back, kicking his feet out in front of him. Through the window the sunlight streams in, lightening Jim’s hair until it’s just a shade off brown. He pulls out his phone and starts typing.

Sebastian smiles, watching him. “I want a bonus,” he says, just to piss Jim off.

Jim looks up, catches Sebastian’s expression, and snorts – going straight through to amused without even hitting irritation.

Sebastian grins wider, persisting. “It’s a beautiful day. We’re in Mexico. You want a martini and we’ve got fourteen hours before the flight. Besides, I saw a guy who looked like John in there, and it got me a little bit hot – “

Jim snarls and the next thing Sebastian knows he’s pinned to the seat with one of Jim’s hands wrapped around his throat. The phone falls forgotten to the floor. Sebastian tries to laugh and chokes on it, Jim’s fingers pressing down into his jugular.

“Stupid, Moran,” Jim hisses, “Very stupid.”

But he’s not mad. Sebastian can tell _that,_ after all this time. Just as his vision starts to go black and his head swims dizzily above him, Jim lets go; then his mouth is crushing down onto Sebastian’s, all hot rage and jealousy and lust.

“Alright, alright – “ Seb gasps, when he has the air, “If you insist – “

It makes Jim growl and only kiss him harder.

One of the things Jim allows Sebastian is his lip: insouciance so open and obvious that the rest of Jim’s peons can’t believe Sebastian isn’t dead yet. Anybody else talked to Jim like Sebastian does, they’d be dead.

 _Terms of my contract,_ Seb told Valentyna, seeing that awful night in the Moran manor like a diamond gleaming in his mind. _You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to earn it._ Jim knows, after all, that it’s just lip. A nod to the _idea_ that Sebastian might be insubordinate.

Once, it would have bothered him; that all he had left was Jim’s small concessions. Now it doesn’t seem to matter. Submission doesn’t rankle at him like the bad chafe of slavery.

_Born to rule._

Sebastian realizes Jim’s gone still overtop him, and there’s a moment where they just stay; where they are, panting into each other’s mouths, Jim’s chest rising and falling slower and slower as his heartbeat stutters back into time. Sebastian shuts his eyes. He inhales the smell of Jim, musky and heady as incense.

“Tell me again,” Jim says.

Sebastian knows what he means. “I’m yours.”

“All mine.”

“Yes.”

Jim’s thumb strokes slow circles around Sebastian’s jugular, with just enough pressure that Sebastian falls in and out of dizzy. “I’m going to hurt you now,” he says. “Ask me please.”

With his eyes shut Sebastian is blind but he knows what Jim looks like, the gleaming brilliance of excitement in Jim’s iris. Seb can hear the smile in Jim’s voice, the sweet and cruel curve of Jim’s lips and the flash of his white teeth.

“Please.”

“Again, ask me again.” That’s Jim for you, always pushing. Sebastian opens his eyes and drinks Jim in; dark hair, dark smile, pale hand wrapped around Sebastian’s throat.

“Please,” he says. And for the hundredth time, Jim leans down to make Sebastian his.


End file.
